'•,"-•"  --1- 


••fllhAND  SMtTHf 
ACRES  OF  BOON** 
149  PACIFIC  AVBNVI 
I  ON«  MACH.  «At.fr 


tfje  Same 


A    SPINSTER'S    LEAFLETS 

Wherein  is  written  the  History  of 
her  "Doorstep  T3abv,"  a  fancy 
which  in  time  became  a  fact  and 
changed  a  life. 

Illustrated  with  half-tone  vignettes  ....     $1.25 

5Lee  ant  Sfjepart  Publishers  Boston 


A  HILLTOP  SUMMER 


BY 

ALYN    YATES    KEITH 

AUTHOR   OF   "  A    SPINSTER'S    LEAFLETS  " 


LEE  AND  SHEPARD  PUBLISHERS 

10      .MILK       STREET 

BOSTON 


COPYRIGHT,  1894,  BY  LEE  AND  SHEPARD 


All  Rights  Reserved 


A  HILLTOP  SUMMER 


ELECTROTYPED    BY   C.    J.    PETERS  &   SON. 


TO 

M.   J.    M. 


THKSK  SKKTCHKS  AKK  COLLECTED  AND  PUT  INTO  COVERS 
THROUGH  THE  COURTESY  OF  THE 

NKW  YORK  EVENING  POST 
WHICH   FIRST  PUBLISHED   THEM 


CONTENTS. 


PACK. 

I.  RACHEL  AND  JESSE 1 

II.  JESS'S  MONEY 14 

III.  A  LITTLE  WOULD 29 

IV.  CAP'N  SATI 43 

V.  THE  WIDOW  PEASE 54 

VI.  A  HOT  SUNDAY 65 

VII.  HILLTOP'S  DESOLATION 78 

VIII.  A  XEW  FKIKND 87 

IX.  THE  LAST  OF  HILLTOP   .  101 


A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 


RACHEL    AND   JESSE 

WE  followed  the  little  procession  to  the  door  of  the 
gray  old  meeting-house,  and  lingered  to  watch  its  slow 

winding  down  the  hill. 

^c&._gr  Four  white-haired   men 

bore  the  coffin  on  their 
shoulders,  treading  after  the  old 
minister  with  uneven  steps.  The 

. .;  L 

road  was  rough,  and  the  mourn- 
ers      jostled      each 
other  as  they  picked 
their  way  among  the 
stones.      But   Aunt 
Rachel      was      past 
being    disturbed   by 
any  lack  of  harmony 
among  her  followers. 
The  coffin-plate  said 
she  had  fulfilled  her  ninety 
years ;    but    remembering   the 
majesty    of     the     face    from    which 


• 

'-•    , 
*-.- 


2  A    HILLTOP    SUMMER 

kindly  Death  had  smoothed  all  lines  of  age  and  sorrow, 
it  was  hard  to  believe  the  legend  we  had  just  read 
while  the  body  lay  in  homely,  solemn  state  below  the 
high  pulpit. 

Aunt  Rachel  did  not  belong  to  us  ;  and,  though  any 
one  was  welcome  to  join  the  wavering  line  that  went 
noiselessly  down  the  sharp  hill  and  turned  to  the  little 
bury  ing-ground  at  the  right,  we  sat  on  the  rocks  back 
of  the  church,  listening  to  the  birds  that  hopped  and 
chirped  around  us. 

It  seemed  a  thing  impossible  that  Death  could  be, 
in  this  living  sunshine  above  the  new  grass,  with 
the  full  song  of  the  nesting  robins  shaking  the  sweet 
air. 

The  cracked  bell  in  the  steeple  ceased  its  melancholy 
stroke  as  the  last  of  the  broken  line  entered  the  gate ; 
and  the  tones  of  the  preacher's  voice  floated  up  to  us. 
jarring  somewhat  upon  the  peaceful  air.  There  were 
no  tears  shed  as  the  coffin  was  slowly  lowered  into  the 
grave  ;  and  when  the  prayer  was  ended  three  old  men 
with  two  old  wives  and  one  old  daughter  turned  away 
with  an  air  of  relief.  The  neighbors  shook  hands  with 
them  in  a  listless  way  ;  then  came  briskly  up  the  hill, 
stopping  for  a  moment  at  the  still  open  church-door  to 
ask  after  the  health  of  absent  families  and  the  prospect 
of  crops.  No  one  said  good-by,  but  after  lingering 
awkwardly  for  a  while  the  men  slunk  away  first,  and 
the  women  followed ;  the  younger  ones  dropping  back 


RACHEL   AND  JESSE  3 

to  ask  for  some  new  cake  receipt,  or  the  best  way  to  dye 
faded  merino. 

One  old  man  stayed  behind.  He  stepped  cautiously 
along  the  uneven  rocks,  leaning  on  a  heavy  staff,  and 
shaded  his  eyes  with  one  hand  as  he  looked  over  us  to 
the  fresh  mound  below. 

"  Well,  I'm  mighty  sorry  Aunt  Rachel's  gone,"  he 
said,  addressing  us  with  the  indifference  of  age.  "  She 
was  a  proper  good  woman.  Not  a  child  her  ekal 
amongst  'em  all,  not  a  one  that  could  hold  a  candle 
to  Rachel.  Mebbe  you  two  didn't  know  her.  No  ? 
What  a  pity  !  Well,  she  wa'n't  much  older'n  I  be, 
and  I  can't  think  of  a  time  when  I  didn't  know  her. 
Purty  girl  an'  woman  as  ever  you  see.  Didn't  look  it, 
did  she  ?  Set  down  ?  Well,  no,  'bleeged  to  ye  ;  I've 
got  rheumatics  bad,  an'  'tain't  easy  to  git  up  ag'in. 
Where  was  I  ?  Oh  !  Her  folks  was  Babtists,  and  they 
kep'  her  strict,  I  tell  ye.  She  was  babtized  one  awful 
cold  Sunday  over  there  in  the  big  pond  jest  beyond  the 
buryin'-ground.  She  wa'n't  more'n  sixteen  year  old, 
an'  jest  as  purty  as  a  pink  —  all  red  an'  white ;  looked 
jest  's  if  somebody'd  spatted  her  side  o'  the  face.  She 
went  down  into  the  water  with  the  parson ;  an'  when 
he  put  her  under  an'  fetched  her  up  ag'in,  I  shouted 
Hallelujah  as  loud  as  any  of  'em.  Did  it  hurt  her  any, 
you  say  ?  Laud  sakes,  no  !  Folks  never  catches  cold 
them  times. 

"  Our  Jesse,  he  stood  back  with  the  crowd,  and  when 


4  A    HILLTOP    SUMMER 

she  come  out  all  drippin'  and  solemn,  seemed  's  if  she 
looked  for  him  fust  one.  But  he  turned  his  head  'tother 
way  an'  walked  off.  I  can  see  him  as  plain.  What 
for?  Why,  you  see  he  wa'n't  a  professor.  He  didn't 
b'lieve  that  way.  An'  her  folks  wras  terrible  strict. 
He  was  a  peart  one,  if  I  do  say  it.  An'  he  was  my 
brother,  too.  Folks  don't  allays  hev  a  call  to  flatter 
their  own,  but  I  ain't  no  believer  in  riinnin'  down  your 
kith  an'  kin  for  perliteness  to  other  folks.  They 
couldn't  say  a  word  against  Jess.  Square  up  an'  down 
he  was  'bout  everything,  an'  a  mind  of  his  own.  He 
hed  a  mighty  masterful  way  with  him,  too  ;  an'  pa  an' 
ma  they  jest  hoped  he'd  get  Rachel  if  he'd  wait  long 
enough.  Mebbe  they  thought  the  old  folks  'd  die. 
But  old  folks  will  hang  on  amazin'.  An'  after  a  spell 
he  got  the  Western  fever  bad,  an'  nothiii'  'd  do  but  to 
try  farmin'  on't  out  there. 

"  Folks  didn't  write  letters  much  them  days.  It  cost 
twenty-five  cents  to  get  one,  an'  money  didn't  grow 
onto  every  bush,  way  it  does  now.  But  Jesse  wrote  to 
ma  that  fall  —  'twas  spring  when  he  left  —  an'  he  sent 
some  word  to  Rachel.  Ma  cried,  I  remember,  an'  I 
wondered  what  for,  but  she  wouldn't  tell.  It  was  a 
Sunday  mornin',  an'  one  o'  the  neighbors  fetched  her 
the  letter  to  church.  He  said  he  tucked  it  under  the 
wagon  seat  when  he  went  to  the  post-office,  an'  forgot 
it  for  about  a  week.  She  carried  that  letter  'round 
in  her  pocket  an'  never  showed  it,  an'  pa  said  he 


RACHEL   AND   JESSE  5 

couldn't  get  it  out  of  her  what  'twas  all  about.  Jess 
was  like  ma ;  straight  as  an  arrer,  an'  true  as  preachin', 
an'  mighty  close-mouthed. 

"  After  that  Rachel  didn't  come  to  our  house,  nor  we 
didn't  go  there.  That  winter  ma  got  another  letter,  an' 
some  on't  she  read  to  us,  but  not  all.  She  waited  till 
meetin'  was  out  to  see  Rachel,  an'  said  somethin'  or 
'nother  to  her.  I  couldn't  make  out  what  'twas,  but 
the  girl  redded  up  an'  acted  jest's  if  she'd  got  somethin' 
to  say,  only  the  deacon  was  close  by,  lookin'  at  her,  an' 
she  shet  her  mouth  tight.  The  deacon,  I  forgot  to  say, 
was  her  pa. 

'•  Well,  'twas  nigh  onto  five  year  'fore  Rachel 
married,  an'  we'd  kind  o'  lost  sight  o'  Jess.  What 
made  her  marry?  Laws!  how  sh'd  I  know?  Mark 
was  a  good  farmer,  an'  he'd  got  money  laid  up.  He 
was  a  professor,  too.  He  went  down  into  the  water 
that  same  day  with  Rachel  —  buried  in  babtism,  you 
know  ;  an'  we  Babtists  make  a  good  deal  o'  that.  He 
wa'ii't  much  of  a  man  after  all ;  sort  o'  chips  in  por- 
ridge, you  know  ;  never  did  a  mite  o'  harm,  but  he 
didn't  amount  to  a  row  o'  shucks.  Only  he  could 
make  money.  They  used  to  say  he'd  pinch  a  dollar  till 
the  eagle  on't  squealed.  When  the  ol'  folks  died  he  got 
the  farm,  bein'  the  oldest,  an'  I  guess  Rachel  had  easier 
times.  For  Mark's  folks  was  plaguey  hard  to  got  along 
with.  They  was  all  money-makers,  tight  as  a  drum.  I 
tell  you  the  ol'  man  squeezed  the  pennies  ! 


6  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

"  An'  Rachel  had  a  lot  o'  children.  There  was  Joe 
an'  Tim  an'  Zeke  —  all  jest  like  their  pa.  Then  she 
had  one  little  girl  that  took  arter  her ;  a  purty  cretur, 
with  a  smile  for  everybody;  allays  givin'  away  every- 
thing she'd  got,  jest  like  her  ma,  the  ol'  folks  said. 
She  was  a  lovin'  little  thing  as  ever  I  see,  an'  Rachel 
set  store  by  her.  Mark  said  she  spiled  her,  but  'twu'n't 
so.  She  wa'n't  that  sort.  It's  weak  stuff  that  spiles 
easy. 

"  One  day  they  had  a  sewin'-meetin'  to  the  house,  an' 
Rachel  was  awful  busy  gettin'  supper.  'Twas  a  hot 
day,  an'  the  little  un  played  outside.  Jest  as  they  was 
all  settin'  down  to  the  table  she  come  mopin'  along  in, 
an'  said  her  head  ached,  an'  cried  some.  Rachel  was 
that  worried,  but  the  minister's  wife  was  there,  an"  they 
all  thought  she  babied  the  little  girl  too  much  :  so 
Rachel  jest  told  her  to  run  along  out  an'  she  should 
have  her  supper  when  they  got  through.  She  told  me 
after  'twas  all  over,  seemed  's  if  'twould  kill  her  sendin' 
the  child  away  so.  Somethin'  seemed  hangin'  over  her; 
only  she  Avas  'shamed  to  act  foolish.  Well,  that  night 
little  Mary  died  sudden  ;  out  of  her  head  an'  never 
knew  her  mother.  That's  her  little  grave-stone,  leanin' 
onto  one  side,  over  there  by  Mark's  folks  —  most  cov- 
ered up  witli  grass.  After  she  was  buried  Rachel  had 
a  fit  o'  sickness,  an'  there  wa'n't  a  mite  o'  color  in  her 
face  when  she  got  over  it. 

"  I  reckon  'twas  a  good  thing  for  her  when  the  old 


RACHEL   AND   JESSE  7 

folks  passed  away.  She  didn't  have  a  real  easy  time 
with  'em,  bring-in'  up  her  boys.  Boys  will  be  boys,  an' 
they  didn't  like  to  hev  so  many  orderin'  'em  'round. 
Tim,  he  run  away :  but  when  his  granther  died  lie  got 
back  ag'in.  They  was  stiddy  enough  bo}'s,  as  boys 
goes,  but  they  didn't  amount  to  much.  Kind  o'  small 
potatoes,  every  one  of  'em.  Rachel,  she  had  the  snap. 
She'd  do  more  work  days  an'  then  set  up  nights  with 
sick  folks  than  anybody  within  ten  miles  o'  here.  Jest 
about  a  year  after  Mary  died  she  hed  another  girl  baby, 
and  by  an'  by  two  more  boys. 

•••When  Tom — he  was  the  baby  then  —  was  big 
enough  to  run  'round,  all  of  a  sudden  Jess  come  home. 
Pa  hed  been  dead  a  good  man}*  years,  an'  ma  was  livin' 
with  us.  Mebbe  you  don't  wan*  to  hear  all  about  this. 
You  do,  eh  ?  Well,  our  folks  says  you  can't  stop  me 
when  I  get  onto  old  times,  more'n  you  could  stop  a 
ox-team  runnin'  down  meetin'-us  hill.  Where  be  I  ? 
Oil  —  yes  —  I  sort  o'  wondered  what  Jess'd  say,  but 
my  wife  she  told  me  to  keep  still.  Jess  was  a  grand 
lookin'  man,  if  I  do  say  it.  He'd  got  a  big  farm  out 
West,  and  he  said  ma  must  go  an'  keep  house  for  him. 
She  was  as  tickled  about  it  as  missy  with  a  new  beau  ; 
an'  proud  !  —  proud  wa'n't  no  name  for  it ! 

"  Well,  next  mornin'  I  hed  to  be  down  medder 
tnrnin'  the  grass,  an'  Rachel's  little  feller  was  t'other 
side  the  fence  hollerin'  at  me.  I  was  'fraid  he'd  get 
lost  or  somethin'd  happen  to  him,  so  I  told  him  his  ma 


8  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

wanted  him,  an'  purty  soon  down  she  come  ;  for  Rachel 
never  could  let  one  on  'em  out  of  her  sight.  An'  when 
I  looked  'round,  what  should  I  see  but  Jess  comin' 
down  the  lane  !  I  got  out  o'  the  way,  for  it  scairt  me 
to  think  o'  seein'  them  two  together  ag'in.  Rachel  did 
a  poor  thing  when  she  took  Mark,  for  all  his  money. 
It  didn't  do  her  a  mite  o'  good,  an'  his  stingy  ways  was 
powerful  pinchin'  for  anybody  to  put  up  with,  let  alone 
a  big-hearted  woman  like  her,  allays  helpin'  poor  folks 
an'  gettin'  scolded  for  't,  an'  bearin'  the  brunt  of  every- 
thing. Well,  I  jest  scrooched  down  behind  a  rock  that 
I'd  allays  hated  to  hev  in  the  medder,  but  I  was  power- 
ful glad  on  't  that  day  ;  an'  Rachel  picked  up  her  baby 
an'  started  to  go  back.  When  she  see  Jess  standin' 
still  before  her,  a  great,  big  feller,  all  dressed  up  fine's 
a  fiddle,  she  sort  o'  sunk  right  down  on  to  the  grass. 
They  didn't  shake  hands,  nor  so  much  as  pass  the  time 
o'  day.  But  Jess  picked  up  the  little  feller,  an'  set 
down,  with  'im  on  one  knee,  an'  took  out  a  big  watch 
from  his  wesket  pocket  for  'im  to  play  with.  Rachel 
was  white  as  a  sheet,  an'  she  didn't  seem  to  open  her 
mouth;  leastways  I  couldn't  hear  a  word.  The  little 
chap  was  terrible  sassy  with  'im,  pullin'  his  whiskers, 
and  climbin'  all  over  'im,  an'  flingin'  the  Avatch  fur  as 
'twould  go  to  the  end  o'  the  chain.  Purty  soon  Jess 
spoke  up.  an'  says  he  : 

"  'This  little  feller  had  ought  to  be'n  mine,  Rachel.' 
"  An'  then  I  see  Rachel  get  up  like  an  old  woman  an' 


RACHEL   AND  JESSE  9 

reach  out  for  the  child ;  but  he  wouldn't  leave  Jess. 
She  put  both  hands  up  over  her  face,  an"  Jess,  he 
pushed  the  boy  out'n  his  lap  an'  was  over  the  fence  an' 
up  the  lane  in  the  shake  of  a  lamb's  tail.  He  went  out 
West  ag'in  in  a  day  or  two,  an'  took  ma  with  'iin  ;  'twas 
like  l>ein'  set  right  down  in  a  butter-tub,  as  we  say,  an' 
there  she  stayed,  roll  in'  in  luxury,  she  wrote  to  us,  till 
she  died. 

••  Xow,  mebbe  you  think  "tain't  much  of  a  story,  this, 
but  there's  a  little  more  to  it.  By  an'  by  the  boys  got 
along  up  to  be  men,  narrer,  like  their  pa ;  scrimpin'  in 
their  ways,  so's  nobody  could  get  along  with  'em  unless 
'twas  their  wives.  Women  folks  does  have  a  way  of 
puttin"  up  with  things  that  "d  rile  a  saint.  Then  Mark 
up  and  died  —  'twas  one  hot  summer  in  hayin'  time  — 
an'  Joe  got  the  farm.  Rachel  stayed  on  with  'em,  an' 
did  the  heavy  work.  Joe's  wife  had  narves,  an'  she 
couldn't  have  the  babies  sleep  with  her  nights ;  so 
Rachel  took  'em,  and  did  most  o'  the  bringin'  up. 
She  got  enough  to  eat  an'  to  wear,  but  'twas  all  purty 
plain,  even  for  plain  folks  like  us.  Someways  she  man- 
aged to  look  different  from  other  women  folks,  even 
when  she  got  old  an"  wrinkled.  There  was  a  'mazin' 
peaceful  kind  o'  look  on  her  face,  as  if  this  world  wa'n't 
all  there  was  of  it,  that  I  declare  to  goodness  when  she 
come  into  church  with  two  or  three  little  uns  hangin' 
onto  her,  she  was  han'some  as  a  pictur'.  When  any  o' 
the  neighbors  took  sick,  they  sent  for  her,  day  or  night : 


10  A    HILLTOP   SL'MMEK 

an'  my  wife  she  says  the  sight  of  her  face  was  better'n 
a  dose  o'  medicine  any  time. 

"  Well,  it  went  on  that  way  till  she  was  nigh  onto 
seventy  year  old.  An'  then  Jess  come  back  ag'in. 
We  was  that  proud  on  him  !  A  better  lookin'  man,  an' 
a  younger,  for  one  that  was  gettiii'  along,  you  couldn't 
pick  out  in  a  week  o'  Sundays.  Held  his  head  up  's 
if  'twas  check-reined,  high  collar,  good  necktie  week 
days  an'  all,  not  a  wrinkle  in  the  back  of  his  coat, 
trousers  gallussed  up  to  the  right  notch,  boots  shiny. 
It  jes'  did  your  heart  good  to  look  at  'im. 

"  'Twas  Saturday  night  when  he  come,  an'  Sunday 
we  took  'im  to  church  with  us.  I  brushed  up  some,  an' 
wife  she  fixed  up  her  bunnit  with  a  new  ribbin. 
Rachel  was  there  in  her  weeds,  with  Joe  an'  his  chil- 
dren. Their  ma  couldn't  stan'  Babtist  preachin'  no 
way ;  an'  she  was  most  giner'ly  on  her  back  Sundays. 
An'  Jess,  he  never  took  his  eyes  off' n  Rachel.  But  she 
didn't  see  'm  I  say,  though  wife  she  says  she  did. 
What  made  her  think  so  was  because  Rachel's  cheeks 
was  as  pink  as  peaches.  But  'twas  a  hot  Sunday,  an' 
the  parson  lied  a  miled-long  sermon,  about  bein'  buried 
in  babtism,  provin'  that  the'  wa'n't  no  other  way  to  be 
saved  skercely.  My  wife,  she  thought  'twas  all  gospel 
truth;  an'  mebbe  I  should  too  if  it  hadn't  been  that 
Jess  was  settin'  right  there  hearin'  of  it  too. 

"  When  we  went  home  out  o'  sight  o'  him  an'  the 
neighbors,  she  nudged  me  sudden,  an'  says  she : 


RACHEL   AND  JESSE  11 

"  '  What  d'ye  thiiik's  goin'  to  happen  ?  ' 

u  An'  I  says,  '  Dunno,  unless  you  women  folks  've 
been  gittiii'  up  another  donation  visit  to  take  the  bread 
out  o'  our  mouths.'  We'd  jest  lied  one  along  towards 
spring ;  an'  I  wa'n't  the  only  man  that  growled  some 
because  the  parson  lived  so  high  without  workin'  for't 
like  the  rest  on  us. 

"  Well,  she's  a  master-hand  to  guess  out  things,  my 
wife  is,  an'  she  tried  to  get  me  into  't.  I  was  jest  beat 
out  with  the  heat  an'  the  preachin'  and  says  I,  '  Out 
with  it  if  you've  got  anythin'  to  say,  an'  don't  keep  me 
on  tenter  hooks  no  longer.' 

"  But  she  waited  till  I'd  onloeked  the  kitchen  door, 
an'  then  she  stepped  inside  right  afore  me,  an'  says 
she  :  — 

"  '  Rachel's  goin'  to  marry  Jess  this  time  ! ' 

"  I  declar'  for  't,  you  could  hev  knocked  me  down 
with  a  broom  splinter!  'You  don't  say  so!'  says  I. 
An'  I  couldn't  eat  any  dinner  —  leastways  not  much, 
an'  she  lied  an  extry  one  that  day. 

"  When  Jess  come  in  —  he'd  been  talkin'  with  Square 
'Lias  out  by  the  shed  —  I  was  goin'  to  ask  "im.  But 
wife  jest  hushed  me  up,  an'  begun  to  talk  about  the 
weather ;  an'  when  we  was  alone,  me  an'  him,  I  hedn't 
got  the  courage.  If  I  hed,  I'd  a  known  ;  an'  'twould 
be  a  comfort.  But  that's  the  end  to  a  long  story,  an'  I 
reckon,  you're  purty  well  tuckered  out  with  my  talk  by 
this  time.  Didn't  he  marry  her  after  all?  Well,  I'm 


12  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

bound  to  say,  no.  He  hung  round  a  spell,  which  wa'n't 
like  Jess,  an'  use'  to  go  to  the  house  purty  often,  till 
Joe  as  good's  invited  him  to  leave.  Joe  never  wasted 
time  Tamiii'  manners,  from  what  I  heerd  say.  He  told 
the  Square  after  meetin'  next  Sunday,  that  any  man 
that  couldn't  take  care  of  his  own  mother  hedn't  never 
ough'  to  hev  one. 

"  I  ruther  guess  they  kind  o'  over-persuaded  Aunt 
Rachel,  an'  talked  about  her  dooty,  an'  the  foolishness 
of  it  all.  Jess  lied  the  same  old  masterful  way  that 
most  folks  couldn't  git  'round.  But  they  argied  that 
old  folks  better  be  satisfied  as  they  was.  An'  they  got 
the  parson  to  come  down  to  the  house  an'  tell  'im.  It 
was  kind  o'  town  talk  for  a  spell.  An'  then  Jess  he 
went  West  ag'in,  an'  said  nothin'  to  nobody ;  an'  not  a 
word  have  we  heerd  from  that  day  to  this." 

The  old  man  walked  off.  leaning  hard  on  his  staff, 
but  turned  by  the  meeting-house  steps  to  set  his  hat 
well  on  the  back  of  his  head,  and  say,  "  Good  day,  an' 
good  luck  to  ye." 

One  evening  just  at  sunset,  we  strolled  down  to  the 
little  burying-ground,  drawn  irresistibly  toward  the 
grave  of  everybody's  Aunt  Rachel.  The  robins  were 
piping  their  happy  good-night  song,  and  the  world 
seemed  brimful  and  running  over  with  life  and  hope. 
Picking  our  way  among  the  slanting  headstones,  we 
came  suddenly  upon  the  new-made  grave.  Kneeling 


BACUEL  AND  JESSE 


13 


beside  it  was  a  tall  figure  with  silvery  hair.  One  thin 
hand  rested  on  the  mound,  supporting  the  body  which 
had  half  fallen  across  it. 

Three  days  later  we  stood  with  our  old  friend  beside 
another  new-made  grave,  side  by  side  with  Rachel's. 
The  neighbors  had  left  us  alone,  and  the  old  man 

O 

thought  aloud,  as  if  we  too  were  gone. 

"  Jess,  my  boy,  'twas  a  hard  row  you  hed  to  hoe  —  a 
hard  row.  They 
might  've  let  you 
hed  her.  'Twa'n't 
right.  She'd  ough' 
to  hev  hed  your 
prop'ty  —  not  us. 
They  'd  a  buried 
you  over  there  in 
the  swamp  corner 
if  I  hedn't  hed  my 
say.  They  can't 
send  you  away 
now,  Jess,  if  you  ain't  a  perfessor.  An'  whose  shall 
she  be  in  the  resurrection  ?  If  the  Scriptur's  true  that 
says  there  they  neither  marry  nor  are  given  in  mar- 
riage, but  are  as  the  angels  of  God,  I  don't  see 
Avhy  you  ain't  got  jest  as  good  a  claim  to  Rachel  as 
Mark  hed.  For  lovin's  the  main  thing  up  ther,  I 
reckon,  Jess,  my  boy,  an'  you've  allays  loved  her 
dear." 


14 


A   HILLTOP    sl'MMKK 


II 


JESS  S    MONEY 

WE  came  to  Hilltop  "when  the  trees  were  just  begin- 
ning to  thicken  at  their  twigs.  The  little  runways  that 
slid  down  the  hills  carried  a 
faint  line  of  growth  along  their 
edges,  as  if  tidy  Nature  had 
turned  over  a  green  hem  of 
earth  to  keep  them  within 
bounds.  The  precaution  seem- 
ed needless,  though  in  touch 
with  the  general  economic  plan. 
Elsewhere  the  grass  lay  dis- 
couragingly  dead  and  trodden, 
without  a  suggestion  of  what 
was  to  come. 

After  a  few  days  the  sharp  edge  of  the  air  was  blunted, 
and  as  the  sap  rose  and  rioted  along  the  patient  tree- 
trunks  it  set  the  dry  bark  thinking,  and  swelled  the 
millions  of  leaf-buds  till  they  showed  misty  reds  and 
browns  and  pale  yellows  against  the  cold  blue  of  the 
sky.  One  evening  a  warm  rain  fell ;  the  angel  on  the 
meeting-house  steeple  veered,  and  blew  his  long  trumpet 


JESS'S  MONEY  15 

toward  the  south ;  and  when  the  sun  shone  at  next  mid- 
day, the  trees  of  the  fields  clapped  their  hands. 

Now  the  contagion  of  growth  had  seized  them  every 
one  ;  and  this  May  morning,  as  we  strolled  along  in  the 
dew  after  our  six  o'clock  breakfast,  spoiling  our  shoes 
and  trailing  our  flannel  gowns,  we  saw  that  the  pap- 
poose  buds  had  dropped  great  hanging  sheaths,  and  let 
out  soft  pale-green  baby  leaves  that  were  ready  to  shift 
for  themselves  with  the  rashness  of  youth.  The  maples 
were  bright  atop,  the  horse-chestnuts  held  up  great  bou- 
quets of  fringed  white  and  green.  Everywhere  grew 
yellow  buttercups.  Red  sorrel  in  the  fields,  red  colum- 
bine in  crevices  of  the  rocks  ;  the  old,  barren  earth  had 
indeed  broken  forth  into  singing,  and  these  were  her 
first  quivering  chords.  Painted-cup  was  gay  in  the 
meadows,  Jack-in-the-pulpit  was  ready  for  his  sermon, 
and  the  swamp  was  one  fog  of  leaves. 

Coming  suddenly  upon  a  story-and-a-half  house  at  a 
turn  in  the  road,  we  stopped  to  admire  the  vines  that 
clambered  up  by  the  brown  picket  fence,  and  hung 
themselves  over  when  they  could  no  longer  climb. 
There  were  bittersweet  from  the  woods,  and  wild  clem- 
atis ;  and  tangled  with  this  transplanted  growth  were 
sweet  peas  and  nasturtiums,  reaching  foolish  tendrils 
nowhere,  or  clinging  to  spears  of  grass  that  bent  to 
every  breath  of  wind. 

"Come  right  along  in  —  right  along  in,"  said  Uncle 
Arad,  planting  his  stout  staff  in  our  direction.  "  She'll 
be  proper  glad  to  see  you." 


16  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

"But  at  this  time," — we  objected. 

"Land!  what  time  do  ye  s'pose  it  is?  We  get  our 
breakfast  'long  o'  the  robins ;  an'  they  don't  waste  none 
o'  the  dew-time,  I  reckon.  Why,  Aunt  Tishy  she  got 
her  bakin'  done  an  hour  ago,  an'  hes  jest  be'n  up  garret 
for  a  passel  o'  rags.  She'll  be  tickled  enough  to  hev 
you  two  come  in  an'  help  her  sort  colors.  Rag  mats,  y' 
know." 

We  needed  no  other  invitation.  The  cool,  clean 
kitchen,  with  its  scoured  floor  and  wide  fireplace,  where 
two  sticks  were  making  bright  embers,  was  the  main 
room  of  the  house.  Besides  this,  its  roof  covered  a 
tiny,  shut-up  parlor,  a  bedroom  on  one  side  the  chimney, 
and  a  large  pantry  and  milkroom  on  the  other.  The 
window  that  looked  toward  the  meeting-house  was  bril- 
liant with  scarlet  geraniums  that  love  the  sunniness  and 
moisture  of  a  kitchen.  A  tabby  cat  curled  on  the  hearth 
gave  a  homey  look  to  the  somewhat  bare  room.  We 
had  been  frequent  visitors  at  the  house  since  our  com- 
ing to  Hilltop  early  in  the  spring,  and  our  presence  was 
no  more  disturbing  to  the  cat  than  to  Aunt  Tishy. 

Uncle  Arad  sat  down  before  the  fire  with  his  hat  on, 
and  leaned  both  hands  on  his  staff. 

"  She  was  a  school-teacher  some  years  back,"  he  be- 
gan,; "an'  what  she  don't  know  how  to  do  " 

Uncle  Arad's  pride  in  his  wife's  attainments  came  to 
no  conclusion. 

"My  other  Mis'  Ridge,"  he  added,  "sent  the  little 


JESS'S  MONEY  17 

uns  to  school  to  her  when  she  wa'n't  more'n  fifteen  ; 
now,  was  ye  ?  " 

"  Sixteen  that  spring  Ann  died,"  said  Aunt  Tishy, 
cutting  strips  of  red  flannel  which  we  begged  to  sew 
together  and  roll  into  balls. 

"  Ann  come  nex'  to  the  boy,"  said  Uncle  Arad  medi- 
tatively. "  Sam  well,  then  Ann,  then  Thurzy,  then  Al- 
miry.  All  of  'em  went  afore  their  ma.  Seem's  though 
'twas  some  other  world  them  days.  An'  now  they're 
gone  where  the  streets  is  paved  with  gold,  an'  money 
can't  do  'em  a  mite  o'  good.  An'  here  Jess  hes  up  an 
left  me  all  his  prop'ty.  Curi's.  It  kind  o'  tires  me  to 
think  on  't.  Can't  take  it  with  me,  as  they  say,  when 
I've  got  to  le'  go  my  hold  here.  Not  a  soul  to  leave  it 
to  'cept  the  missionaries,  an'  'twouldn't  be  a  drop  in 
the  buckit  to  them." 

The  old  man  got  up,  heavy  with  thought,  and  sat 
down  on  the  doorsill. 

"  'Tis  a  terrible  responsibility,"  said  Aunt  Tishy 
softly,  taking  up  the  burden  where  he  dropped  it. 
"Sometimes  I  think  —  and  then  again  I  let  it  alone. 
But  it  does  seem  —  doesn't  it?  —  as  if  when  we've 
got  through  with  it  we  ought  to  fix  it  so  as  some  of 
our  sort  could  have  the  use  of  it.  I  never  believed 
in  missionarying  so  much  as  some.  If  a  man  has  a  call 
to  go  amongst  the  heathen,  I'm  not  going  to  put  blocks 
in  his  way.  But  when  he  expects  a  woman  and  little 
children  to  live  there  with  him,  and  bear  the  brunt  of 


18  A    HILLTOP    SUMMER 

it,  and  keeps  the  blessing  to  himself  —  why,  it  gets  me 
right  up  in  arms.  Let  him  self-sacrifice  if  he  wants  to. 
I  like  to  see  a  man  that  can.  But  I  don't  know.  I've 
thought  and  thought." 

There  was  a  long  pause.  The  cat  rose  and  stretched 
herself,  and  tried  her  claws  on  her  mistress's  apron. 

"  There,  Tildy,  I  knew  you'd  do  it,"  she  said  mildly, 
as  the  red  and  black  strips  slid  to  the  floor.  "  See 
what  a  mess  you've  made  !  No,  you  know  I  can't  have 
you  in  my  lap.  Don't  you  see  I  had  my  strips  all 
sorted  ?  " 

The  cat  listened  with  a  bored  air,  turned  resignedly 
away,  and  jumped  for  her  master's  shoulder. 

"That's  Tildy  all  over!"  said  Aunt  Tishy,  making 
a  deeper  lap  for  her  balls.  "If  I  won't  have  her  she 
goes  straight  to  him.  She  thinks  she's  had  her  own 
way  now.  But  about  that  money.  I  wish  I  could 
have  a  sort  of  leading  of  Providence,  such  as  some  folks 
have.  I  think  and  think  till  it  seems  as  if  I  couldn't. 
You  wonder  if  there  isn't  some  of  my  folks  needing  it, 
you  say.  Well,  yes,  I'm  free  to  tell  you,  plenty  of 
them.  But  there's  one  of  his  sort  that  I  do  feel  a  draw- 
ing towards.  He's  his  sister's  —  well  there,  you  don't 
know.  But  he  had  one  sister,  Samiry,  and  she  didn't 
do  well  marrying.  That  is,  in  one  way." 

"Smirymus  wus  her  name,"  put  in  Uncle  Arad. 
"  'Twa'n't  Scriptur',  but  it  b'longed  to  some  o'  them 
countries." 


JESS'S  MONEY  19 

"  All  his  folks  and  hers  set  against  it,"  continued 
Aunt  Tishy,  "  but  she  would  have  him,  and  she  did. 
He  was  a  wild  harum-scarum  sort  of  boy,  mighty  fond 
of  his  book,  though.  But  he  was  different.  He  was 
made  different,  I  say;  and  the  old  folks  didn't  know 
how  to  get  along  with  him  any  more  than  if  he'd  been 
a  live  scarecrow.  He  was  full  of  his  tricks,  and  they 
didn't  have  any  too  much  patience.  Folks  didn't  have, 
very  often,  in  those  days.  There  was  everything  to  do, 
and  not  much  to  do  with,  and  they  couldn't  put  up 
with  fooling.  Young  folks  had  to  walk  straight.  If  a 
boy  had  got  to  man's  size,  he  must  toe  the  mark  or  take 
a  birching.  And  Abner  couldn't.  I  always  would 
stand  up  for  him.  I  said  then,  and  I  say  it  now,  it  was 
a  shame  to  whip  a  boy  for  laughing  011  a  Sunday.  He 
was  a  pretty  boy  too.  There  wasn't  one  in  school  I  set 
more  store  by  than  him  —  always  read}-  to  get  a  pail  of 
water  recess  time,  and  then  he'd  want  to  pass  it  round 
in  school.  I  couldn't  say  no  after  he'd  spent  all  his 
play-time  to  get  it ;  but  when  he  passed  it  round  there'd 
be  such  a  jumping  and  squealing  that  I  knew  some  mis- 
chief was  afoot.  He  was  just  as  sober  as  a  judge,  and  I 
couldn't  find  out  for  the  life  of  me  till  little  Billy  Riggs 
told  011  him.  He  said  when  the  little  boys  bent  down 
their  heads  to  do  sums,  Abner  passed  the  dipper  over, 
and  a  trickle  went  right  down  their  necks.  But  he 
never  seemed  to  do  it,  and  try  my  best  I  couldn't  find 
out  if  'twas  more  than  an  accident. 


20  A   UILLTOP   SUMMER 

"  He  was  kind-hearted,  but  the  sort  that  can't  be 
happy  unless  they're  in  mischief.  He  knew  every  weed 
that  ever  grew  round  the  swamp,  and  was  always  get- 
ting into  difficulties  with  his  muddy  clothes  and  what 
not.  He  was  always  tearing  his  jackets  too.  And  I 
can  fairly  see  him  now,  tetering  way  out  on  an  oak- 
limb  to  get  a  peek  into  a  bird's  nest.  The  birds  didn't 
care.  They  thought  he  was  another  kind  of  one  so 

long  as  he  didn't 
have  four  legs.  He 
knew  just  what 
every  bird  sung, 
and  just  how  they 
called  to  each  other,  and  he 
could  make  sounds  like  every 
one  of  them.  Why,  I've  heard 
a  pewee  answer  back  to  him 
time  and  again.  He  never  took 
their  eggs  nor  disturbed  them  any  way  ;  and  the  old 
robin  that  had  a  nest  right  out  here  in  the  cherry- 
tree  would  let  him  come  close  up  to  her  when  she 
was  brooding,  and  never  stir.  She'd  kind  of  cock 
her  head  on  one  side,  and  look  him  over  as  if  she 
was  taking  his  measure  and  calculating  what  sort  of  a 
nest  he  was  likely  to  build.  Like  as  not  he'd  fall  out 
of  the  tree,  forgetting  where  he  was,  with  his  mind 
somewhere  else,  and  'twas  bad  for  his  clothes.  I  do 
suppose  that  boy's  back  smarted  from  one  week's  end 


JESS'S  MONEY  21 

to  the  other,  let  alone  the  scratches  he  got  from  the 
trees.  But  he  wasn't  any  coward.  I've  seen  the  tears 
come  to  liis  eyes  when  I've  read  stories  in  school  — 
well,  I  won't  tell  you  what  about.  I  was  young  then, 
but  I  ought  to  have  known  better.  There's  enough  to 
cry  about  when  real  trouble  comes.  But  Abner  never 
cried  on  his  own  account.  I  can  say  that  for  him. 

"  Well,  he  wanted  to  be  somebody,  he  said ;  and 
when  he  was  old  enough  they  put  him  to  shoemaking 
with  Uncle  Israel  Ball.  Uncle  Israel  pegged  right 
down  to  work,  and  wanted  everybody  to  do  the  same. 
He  was  clever  enough ;  but  there  wasn't  ever  any  fun 
in  him,  and  he  couldn't  see  the  use  of  it.  You  couldn't 
eat  it  nor  drink  it,  he  said,  and  folks  was  put  into  this 
world  to  make  a  living.  'Twas  pretty  hard  on  Abner 
when  he  wanted  learning  so  bad.  It  was  meat  and 
drink  to  him.  I  don't  know  what  would  have  become 
of  him  if  they'd  let  him  have  his  head;  but  he'd  been 
some  sort  of  a  scholar,  and  likely  as  not  made  a  living 
by  it." 

u  He  run  away,"  interpolated  Uncle  Arad  from  the 
doorsill. 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Aunt  Tishy,  "he  ran  away;  and  when 
they  got  him  back  his  father  was  considerable  stricter 
with  him." 

"He  thrashed  'im,"  said  Uncle  Arad,  bending  his 
neck  to  give  Tabby  a  comfortable  perch. 

"  Well,  so  they  said,"  replied  Aunt  Tishy  mildly, 


22  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

'•and  1  shouldn't  wonder.  His  father  wasn't  a  saint, 
and  I  suppose  Abner  was  trying.  But  in  these  days 
they  don't  draw  the  lines  so  tort.  Well,  that  boy  would 
stay  up  nights  to  read  till  they  took  his  light  away  ; 
and  then  he'd  get  up  soon  as  he  could  see.  The  minis- 
ter lent  him  books,  all  about  birds  and  beasts.  He  was 
fond  of  them  himself.  There  was  White's  Natural  His- 
tory of  something  that  he  read  twenty  times  over,  till 
he  could  tell  everything  in  it.  Many  a  time  has  he  sat 
on  that  doorsill  and  told  me  things  I  couldn't  hardly 
believe.  Seems  as  if  he'd  die  if  he  couldn't  get  learn- 
ing some  way.  I've  seen  some  of  the  things  he  wrote 
out,  and  Parson  Todd  said  they  compared  favorable 
with  pieces  he'd  read  in  the  newspapers.  But  as  for 
shoemaking,  'twas  of  no  use.  The  boy  got  so  he  hated 
the  sight  of  a  last,  and  a  waxed  end  was  an  abomina- 
tion; and  his  folks  just  about  went  distracted  over 
him." 

"  More  fools  they  !  "  piped  Uncle  Arad.  "  He  wa'n't 
the  sort  that  goes  wrong  a-purpose.  They  nagged  an' 
nagged,  enough  to  spile  the  soundest  boy-timber  that 
ever  growed ;  till  one  day  he  up  an'  run  away  in  good 
'arnest,  an'  nobody  to  answer  for't  but  his  pa.  Out 
West  he  went,  like  many  another,  an'  picked  up  work 
enough ;  no  shirk  about  him,  an'  bymeby  home  he  come 
to  marry  our  S'miry.  Folks  flung  out  everything  they 
could  about  him ;  but  Jess  he  stood  up  for  Abner,  and 
'twas  him,  I  reckon,  helped  'em  get  away.  Parson 


JESS'S  MONEY  23 

Smith,  over  mountain,  he  married  'em  one  Monday 
mornin'  afore  breakfast.  She'll  tell  ye  the  rest." 

"  Well,"  said  Aunt  Tishy  with  a  comfortable  sigh, 
"  'tisn't  much  more  to  tell.  He  got  work  to  do  and 
books  to  study,  and  Samiry  wrote  home  that  he  was 
just  as  good  a  provider  as  any  man  could  be,  and  that 
she'd  yet  to  see  the  day  she  was  sorry.  But  'twasn't 
more  than  two  or  three  years  before  Abner  took  the 
fever  and  died,  and  she  came  home  with  her  baby,  and 
kind  of  faded  away  to  nothing.  The  old  folks  did  as 
well  as  they  knew  how  for  the  baby,  and  never  would 
give  it  up  to  his  folks.  Mother  Ridge  was  a  good  hand 
with  babies,  easy-going  and  always  trying  to  excuse 
their  ways.  We  used  to  say  she  recollected  when  she 
was  little.  She  could  see  good  in  other  folks's  children 
too,  and  was  always  laying  up  the  reddest  apples  and 
the  biggest  but'nuts  for  them.  But  that  poor  mother- 
less baby  didn't  seem  to  belong  to  Abner.  He  hadn't 
any  spunk.  You  could  put  him  in  one  place  and  he'd 
stay  there.  When  he  was  big  enough  they  tried  him 
at  shoemaking  and  he  stuck  to  it.  So  he  would  to  any- 
thing, though  he  wouldn't  have  thought  it  out  for  him- 
self. When  folks  put  things  into  his  hands  he  held  on. 
It's  a  born  fool,  they  say,  that  hasn't  got  any  grip. 

"  Well,  Abner's  boy  made  a  good  steady-going  man, 
though  for  the  life  of  me  I  couldn't  feel  drawn  towards 
him,  even  for  his  poor  father's  sake ;  and  when  his  time 
came,  he  got  married  and  settled  down.  They  jogged 


24  A   HILLTOP    SUMMER 

along  pretty  comfortable  for  some  years,  without  any 
children  to  keep  them  spry  and  looking  into  things, 
so  that  when  our  Abner  did  come  along  late  in  the  day, 
'twas  like  a  miracle. 

"  They  do  say  family  looks  and  other  things  will 
likely  as  not  skip  a  generation  and  crop  out  again. 
It's  somehow  like  a  piece  of  fallow  ground.  And 
Abner's  peculiar  ways  hadn't  been  worked  up  much 
for  one  generation.  First  anybody  knew  this  child 
blazed  right  out,  another  Abner;  the  very  image  and 
superscription  of  his  grandpa.  They  couldn't  have 
named  him  better,  though  they  didn't  know  it  then. 
He's  all  books,  books,  books,  and  nobody  to  encourage 
him,  only  when  he  comes  over  here  of  a  Sunday.  I 
have  to  tell  him  all  about  his  grandfather,  every 
single  word.  I  did  hate  to  mention  his  pranks,  but 
there's  no  keeping  back  from  this  one.  I've  told  those 
same  stones  over  and  over  till  half  the  time  I  don't 
believe  them  myself.  He  lives  over  there  on  Davy's 
hill  all  alone,  since  the  old  gentleman  died  last  winter. 
One  of  the  neighbors  cooks  his  breakfast  and  supper, 
and  sees  to  the  house,  and  he  carries  his  dinner  to 
school,  down  there  in  the  hollow.  I  expect  he  studies 
too  much  nights,  but  he  won't  own  up  to  it.  We  get 
him  over  here  to  dinner  Sundays  ;  and  when  Uncle 
Arad  goes  out  to  do  the  milking,  I  make  him  talk  over 
his  plans.  But,  poor  boy  I  he'll  be  as  old  as  Methusaleh 
before  he  gets  money  enough  to  go  to  college.  You're 


JESS'S  MONEY  25 

sure  you  ha ven* t  run  across  him  anywhere  ?  Well,  I 
wonder  at  it,  for  I  reckon  you  like  to  climb  rocks  and 
wade  round  in  the  swamp  'most  as  well  as  he  does." 

"  She's  coniin'  to  the  p'int  now,''  said  Uncle  Arad, 
slowly  getting  up  and  straightening  his  cramped 
muscles.  "  I  ain't  in  a  hurry,  but  mebbe  you  two  be, 
an'  I've  seen  better  'commodations  than  this  'ere  door- 
sill.  Tell  'em  now,  Aunt  Tishy,  what  you  was  think- 
in'  about  doiii'  for  Abner.  Y'  see,  for  a  spell  after  we 
got  Jess's  money,  we  use'  to  lie  awake  nights  about  it. 
We  couldn't  take  it  with  us,  an'  we  hated  dretfully 
to  leave  it,  an'  we  hedn't  got  long  to  stay,  though  she's 
nigh  onto  twenty  year  younger  'n  I  be.  An'  for  one 
spell  last  winter  we'd  lie  an'  hear  the  wind  squealin' 
round  the  chimbly,  an'  we'd  say,  4  Le's  fix  up  the  ol' 
house,  an'  raise  the  ruff,  an'  make  it  two  stories  between 
jints,  an'  put  a  portico  over  the  south  stoop  with  pil- 
lers.'  But,  land-a-massy !  what  could  we  do  with  a 
mansion  over  our  heads?  'Twouldn't  fit.  Some  cre- 
turs  can  crawl  out  o'  their  ole  shells  into  bigger  ones 
an'  rattle  round  in  'em  till  they  grow  to  fill  'em  out,  ef 
they  hev  good  luck.  But  \ve  was  too  old.  'Twould 
make  a  kind  o'  division  amongst  the  neighbors  too. 
They  wouldn't  drop  in  after  supper,  friendly,  if  we  hed 
a  front  room  all  fixed  up  with  a  boughten  carpet  an'  a 
sofy.  She  thought  we'd  move  the  bed  out,  an'  use  the 
room  common.  But  we'd  miss  it  in  case  of  sickness. 
Top  chamber  rooms  don't  fit  old  folks  with  stiff  j'ints. 


26  A   HILLTOP    SUMMER 

You  want  to  go  right  from  the  kitchen  lire  to  bed.  An' 
a  front  room  ain't  reel  comfortable  anyway  y'  can  fix  it. 
You  set  round  kind  o'  starchy  like  comp'ny,  an'  nothin' 
to  say.  Folks  ain't  plagued  with  idees  when  they  live 
in  the  front  room.  Now  she'll  go  on." 

Thus  encouraged,  Aunt  Tishy  took  up  the  dropped 
thread  of  her  story  again,  while  the  cat  crept  out  be- 
hind the  rose  bushes  to  lay  plans  for  a  robin  that  stalked 
just  beyond  reach. 

"  What  I  was  coming  to  was  about  Abner.  We'd  be 
glad  enough  to  help  him  if  only  we  knew  how.  But 
that's  the  business  that  keeps  us  awake  nights.  He's 
in  favor  of  giving  the  boy  enough  right  out  to  take  him 
square  through  college  ;  but  I  can't  seem  to  see  my 
way  clear  to  it.  Of  course  he's  our  folks,  but  then  — 
and  I  get  to  thinking  it  over  and  over  till  it  don't  seem 
to  have  any  sense.  I  shouldn't  want  folks  to  give  me 
money  that  they  could  use  for  themselves,  and  he's 
enough  like  his  grandpa  to  say  he  wouldn't  touch  it. 
You  can't  give  money  to  folks  same  as  if  'twas  garden 
sauce,  or  maybe  a  piece  of  sperrib  at  butchering  time 
that  was  more  than  you  knew  what  to  do  with  your- 
self. I'm  free  to  tell  you  it's  harder  for  me  not  to  hold 
on  to  money  than  'tis  for  him.  It's  partly  in  the  blood, 
and  it's  partly  bringing  up.  He  was  forehanded  for 
those  days  when  I  married  him;  and  I'd  been  earning 
my  money  at  the  hardest  in  a  district  school,  and  board- 
ing round.  There  wasn't  anybody  to  look  out  for  me. 


JESS'S  MONEY  27 

But  there,  I  shall  think  it  all  out  some  night  when  I'm 
lying  awake,  and  then  I'll  know  for  sure.  If  young 
folks  had  to  lie  awake  the  way  old  folks  do,  they 
wouldn't  make  so  many  mistakes  bringing  up  their 
families.  It's  so  kind  of  peaceful  along  before  cock- 
crow, and  the  earth  seems  so  small  flying  'round  there 
amongst  the  stars,  that  your  own  affairs  don't  loom  up 
to  the  daytime  size,  and  you  can  get  a  sight  at  them 
all  round." 

The  tall  clock  in  the  corner  ticked  in  an  important 
way,  and  flashed  back  at  the  sun  that  had  just  looked 
into  its  face.  Tabby  slipped  in,  licking  her  chops  with 
a  foretaste  of  spring  robin,  and  lay  down  discontented 
at  the  feet  of  her  mistress,  who  added :  — 

"  Providence  didn't  see  fit,  all  these  years,  to  send 
us  anybody  to  provide  for  specially :  —  Why,  Arad 
Ridge  !  "  she  cried,  with  such  energy  that  Tabby  bris- 
tled and  sprang  for  the  door  ;  "why,  for  goodness'  sake, 
don't  we  two  adopt  him!  Maybe  that's  what  Provi- 
dence meant  all  this  time  !  " 

As  we  went  out  under  the  cherry-trees  two  robins 
stood  at  gaze  in  a  straight  line  and  watched  us  severely. 
In  the  tall  Norway  spruce  by  the  back  gate  there  was 
a  sound  like  touching  a  dry  leaf  followed  by  the  quip 
of  hurrying  wings.  Something  suspected  us.  Two 
wrens  were  building  in  a  box  on  a  pole,  singing  as  they 
built.  It  sounded  like  "  blowing  a  pipe  under  water." 
Orioles  flashed  by  with  their  flying  thir-r-r,  thir-r-r  ;  a 


28  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

song  sparrow  was  trying  variations  on  his  quis-ka-dee 
theme.  The  air  was  full  of  the  divine  scent  of  apple 
blossoms,  some  trees  still  in  pink  bud,  fresh  and  sweet 
as  if  this  were  their  first  experiment  in  a  waiting  world. 
A  young  man  passed  us  beside  the  garden  wall,  and 
lifted  his  hat.  It  was  the  first  attention  of  the  kind 
that  Hilltop  had  granted  us,  and  we  promptly  made  up 
our  minds  that  this  could  be  no  other  than  Abner  the 
Second.  It  was  Saturday  and  a  holiday.  The  stranger 
carried  a  mighty  bouquet  of  wild  columbine.  As  we 
went  on  the  gate  creaked  behind  us,  and  we  fell  to 
wondering  if  Aunt  Tishy  would  recognize  in  this  un- 
usual visit  a  leading  of  Providence. 


A   LITTLE    WORLD 


29 


III 

A    LITTLE   WORLD 

IF  clouds  could  pick  up  individual  houses  as  one 
gathers  flowers  or  berries,  and  drop  them  again  reck- 
lessly, Hilltop  might  have  been  the  result  of  a  cloud- 
burst at  an  inauspicious  moment.  Perched  on  the  tip 
of  a  rocky  plateau,  stood  the  orthodox  meeting-house, 


<£'!>      '  '    ••'•'    i»<2        ^^WlffTi 

£1  y  M^S-fePii" 


to  which  all  but  a  favored  half-dozen  families  had  to 
climb  for  their  weekly  sermon.  Around  the  edifice,  as 
the  slow  imagination  of  the  elders  named  it,  spread  a 
discouraged  common,  less  than  a  half-acre  in  extent, 
zigzagged  by  footpaths,  and  foiled  in  its  tardy  attempts 
at  greenness  by  sheep  that  roamed  and  nibbled  at  will, 


30  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

and  made  quiet  pictures,  restful  to  the  eye.  One  could 
hear  the  sound  of  their  grazing  across  the  common  on 
still  days  when  the  world  lay  asleep.  A  small  box  of  a 
brown  church  called  'Piscopal,  with  a  cross  on  its 
steeple,  stood  blinking  over  the  way,  with  shutterless 
windows.  The  weather-beaten  door,  that  had  not  been 
unlocked  since  the  society  died  out,  groaned  dismally 
in  a  high  wind;  and  children  ran  away  from  it.  A 
haunted  church  is  far  more  ghostly  than  a  haunted 
house,  for  its  possibilities  are  as  ten  to  one. 

On  a  sunny  slope  still  higher  than  the  common, 
'Squire  'Lias's  house  stood,  cheerful  and  inviting,  catch- 
ing the  light  of  the  sun  before  he  dropped  to  unseen 
depths  behind  the  opposite  hill,  and  flashing  it  back 
from  two  rows  of  shining  windows,  two  oval  cross-eyes 
above  the  front  door,  and  the  one  small,  arched  garret 
window  over  all. 

Mrs.  'Lias,  the  presiding  genius  of  the  place  through 
the  day,  was  the  serene  mother  of  sons  and  daughters 
who  came  home  with  large  families  to  Thanksgiving, 
but  left  the  great  house  lonely  through  the  long  sum- 
mer days,  so  that  it  was  easy  to  secure  a  comfortable 
shelter  during  the  weeks  of  heat  that  depopulate  cities. 
We  were  the  only  summer  boarders  that  had,  as  yet, 
toiled  up  the  steeps  to  Hilltop,  and  the  chances  were 
that  its  casino-days  were  as  far  removed  as  the  millen- 
nium. Once  a  week  the  stage  climbed  slowly  up  and 
up  and  up ;  the  driver  halted  by  the  town  pump,  took  a 


A   LITTLE   WORLD  31 

package  from  his  breast  pocket  and  handed  it  to  the 
storekeeper,  Captain  Saul,  who  blew  the  dust  out  of  a 
cigar-box  before  transferring  the  precious  foreign  intel- 
ligence to  its  keeping.  The  postmaster  had  been  a 
seafaring  man  in  his  youth  long  past,  and  now  kept 
house  in  a  small  room  back  of  the  store.  There  he 
took  his  letters,  and  the  two  or  three  weekly  papers 
subscribed  for  by  the  moneyed  men  of  the  place,  who 
would  call  for  them  in 
the  evening.  Seated  be- 
side his  one  window, 
with  a  thrift}-  lilac  bush 
tapping  on  the  pane,  he 
took  what  he  called 
solid  comfort  in  looking 
over  the  mail,  reading 
the  addresses  and  post- 
marks on  the  letters, 

and  guessing  who  wrote  each  one  and  for  what  pur- 
pose it  was  written,  before  he  laid  them  carefully  by 
in  the  cigar-box  to  be  called  for,  or  forwarded  to 
remote  farms  by  some  so-called  neighbor.  It  beguiled 
the  lingering  hours,  and  furnished  abundant  food 
for  thought  and  conjecture.  His  teakettle  always 
sang  fitfully  on  a  stove  not  much  too  large  for  it, 
unless  its  room  were  needed  for  a  skillet  of  beans 
or  plum  duff.  We  often  made  small  errands  to 
the  store,  hoping  to  coax  a  sea-yarn  out  of  Captain 


32  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

Saul.  It  was  well  that  the  errands  were  of  minor 
importance. 

"  Well,  116,  miss,  I  ain't  got  number  eighty,  that's  a 
fact ;  but  here's  a  spool  of  twenty  left  if  that'll  do  you. 
I  bought  that  thread  back  in  the  seventies." 

The  Captain  assured  us  that  he  never  extortioned 
anybody,  but  that  he  couldn't  afford  noway  to  have 
clearin'  out  sales  as  they  did  over  mountain.  Appar- 
ently he  had  never  had  "  a  home  and  folks  "  anywhere. 
He  had  sailed  to  heathenish  lands,  he  told  us,  but  was 
always  in  a  hurry  to  get  home  again  and  stow  away  his 
toggery  ship-shape  above  high-water  mark. 

His  tales  of  the  sea  were  not  imaginative.  He  could 
tell  the  plain  truth  with  the  accuracy  of  the  table  in 
addition,  but  could  no  more  spin  a  yarn  than  weave  a 
web.  If  he  had  been  born  a  spider,  the  flies  would 
have  had  no  occasion  to  complain  of  him.  The  element 
of  romance  was  wholly  lacking  in  his  simple  life. 
"  I've  heer'd  the  sea  roar  and  the  wind  howl,"  he  would 
say  meditatively,  with  one  elbow  on  the  counter ;  "  but 
bein' ashore' s  another  thing  —  another  thing."  When 
asked  to  explain,  he  had  no  answer  ready ;  and  while 
solemnly  thinking  it  over,  a  customer  would  occasion- 
ally surprise  him,  and  so  entirely  turn  the  tide  of  his 
thoughts  that  we  never  knew  precisely  how  the  differ- 
ence between  the  sea  and  land  struck  him. 

At  one  time  all  Hilltop  thought  that  Aunt  Minerva 
Pease,  a  widow  of  long  standing,  looked  with  favor  on 


A   LITTLE    WOELD  33 

Captain  Saul ;  but  as  the  look  was  not  returned,  nothing 
came  of  it,  and  the  subject,  after  much  handling,  was 
reluctantly  dropped.  Yet  Aunt  Minerva,  who  lived  in 
a  house  of  her  own,  had  five  hundred  dollars  laid  up  in 
the  bank,  as  every  one  knew,  and  was  not  a  bad-looking 
woman  for  one  of  her  age.  The  Captain  was  plainly 
lacking  in  foresight,  if  his  other  faculties  were  tolerably 
well  preserved.  The  conjecture  caused  a  lively  ripple 
in  the  community,  that  kept  it  in  a  state  of  sparkle  for 
weeks. 

'Squire  'Lias's  comfortable  house  commanded  a  view 
of  the  hill  that  led  to  the  town ;  but  away  on  the  west 
was  another  summit  that  we  had  not  explored.  Early 
one  bright  afternoon  we  started  to  look  down,  if  possi- 
ble, into  the  mysterious  region  where  the  sun  disap- 
peared every  night.  Our  hostess  was  concerned  lest 
we  should  be  all  tuckered  out,  and  late  to  supper 
besides,  and  suggested  our  taking  the  horse  and  shay. 
But  as  any  horse,  however  recommended,  was  to  us  an 
unknown  quantity,  we  preferred  the  ills  we  wrere  accus- 
tomed to,  and  set  off  sturdily  on  foot.  Passing  the 
common,  with  its  white  flock  that  nibbled  all  day  and 
gave  no  thought  to  digestion,  we  stopped  a  moment  at 
Uncle  Arad's  gate,  that  hospitably  swung  in.  The 
vines  were  reaching  out  in  a  clamorous,  wild  way,  and 
the  air  was  bitter-sweet  with  cherry  blossoms.  A  sec- 
ond turning  to  the  west  led  to  higher  ground,  where  we 
stopped  to  watch  Hurry  Brook,  as  it  held  the  little 


34 


A   HILLTOP    SUMMER 


burying  ground  gently  in  its  left  elbow,  and,  after  a 
caressing  pause,  dashed  on  under  the  low  bridge  that 
helped  the  road  climb  the  hill. 

At  the  foot  of  the  ascent 
stood  the  brown  schoolhouse, 
in  the  very  heart  of  temptation, 
where  Abner  the  Second  ruled 
over  the  entire  coming  genera- 
tion of  Hilltop.  We  could  hear 
the  shrill  voices  spelling  dread- 
ful words  of  four  syllables  as 
we  climbed  the  hill.  Two  grin- 
ning heads  like  live  gargoyles 
bent  out  at  two  windows  to 
beam  upon  us,  and  the  spelling 
voices  fell  a  little,  then  rose 
again  in  a  higher  key,  like  those 
of  interrupted  katydids.  The  brook 
beckoned  and  the  birds  enticed,  hold- 
ing the  little  schoolhouse  in  the  spell 
of  their  enchantment ;  and  the  young 
of  all  but  man  made  glorious  holiday. 
Long  Hill  stretched  on  alluringly, 
with  thick  woodland  on  one  side  and  lonely 
dwellings  on  the  other,  set  close  to  the  high- 
way for  what  scant  company  they  might  find  in  the 
few  passers-by.  It  was  simply  a  wood-road  that  led 
nowhere.  If  we  had  been  a  circus  procession  with 


A   LITTLE    WOULD  35 

a  brass  band,  we  could  not  have  called  more  heads  to 
the  windows.  Now  and  then  an  overgrown  girl  came 
boldly  out  to  shoo  a  foolish  hen  that  flew  with  needless 
squawking  into  a  new  flower-bed,  and  was  left  to  over- 
turn the  work  of  days,  while  we  passed  in  review,  con- 
scious that  the  fashion  of  our  gowns  and  the  faults  of 
our  hats  would  be  repeated  for  years. 

Here  we  rested  to  look  down  on  the  little  world 
below.  We  could  track  civilization  by  the  rows  of 
cherry-trees,  like  great  white  bouquets,  marking  every 
homestead.  The  peach-trees  added  a  pink  tinge  to  the 
green  and  white  world,  and  a  faint  odor  of  opening 
apple-buds  mingled  with  the  tonic  of  the  cherry. 
Toward  the  south,  Hurry  Brook  fell  into  Roaring  River, 
and,  just  where  they  joined  forces,  the  sawmill  under 
its  rickety  shed  was  making  a  huge  log  into  slabs.  The 
sound  was  not  discordant  at  this  distance.  Nature 
manages  her  chords  with  discretion,  even  utilizing  man's 
discords.  A  single  tree-trunk,  hewn  level  on  the  upper 
side,  bridged  the  brook  perilously  a  few  feet  before  the 
stream  fell  into  the  rocky  bed  of  the  river,  and  hung 
full  ten  feet  above  the  foaming  water.  Here  the  saw- 
miller's  wife,  whose  head  grew  suddenly  dizzy,  once 
made  herself  famous  by  jumping  into  the  stream  from 
the  middle  of  the  uncertain  bridge,  and  wading  out 
unharmed.  In  the  dearth  of  talk  the  story  grew  as 
large,  if  not  as  fast,  as  those  of  town  origin,  and  prom- 
ised a  grandmotherty  heroine  to  future  generations. 


36  A   HILLTOP    SUMMER 

In  that  event  we,  too,  might  win  local  fame.  So  with 
sketch-books  already  half  filled,  we  drew  the  log  bridge, 
the  sawmill,  and  the  two  mad  streams  that  suddenly 
lost  their  united  selves  in  a  gorge  between  the  hills. 

Hours  slid  away  like  moments  ;  the  twilight  was 
long  in  coining ;  and  as  we  went  on,  the  ridge  of  the 
world  seemed  to  stretch  from  east  to  west  before  us. 
The  trees  were  wrenched  and  twisted,  mercilessly  de- 
formed and  bowed  by  years  of  northern  blasts.  There 
was  an  abrupt  descent  in  the  path  of  the  sun  that  daily 
hid  itself  from  Hilltop  long  in  advance  of  almanac  time. 
It  was  too  late  for  us  to  follow ;  so  we  turned  aside,  and 
in  the  deeps  of  the  wood,  a  little  lower  down,  sat  on  a 
fallen  tree-trunk  to  rest. 

Suddenly,  as  from  some  strange  planet,  if  not  from 
the  sun  itself,  whose  rays  made  dancing  green  and 
orange  tints  before  our  eyes,  two  figures  appeared  on 
the  brow  of  the  hill.  We  sat  in  the  shadow  of  a  great 
oak-trunk  and  waited,  but  they  did  not  pass.  Their 
voices  came  to  us  clearly,  as  they  turned  with  the  full 
light  on  their  young  faces,  and  looked  out  over  the 
wonderful  scene.  The  young  girl  was  bareheaded, 
and  her  hat,  swung  by  its  strings,  was  full  of  red  col- 
umbine. 

"  No,  Abner,"  she  was  saying,  as  we  tried,  guiltily, 
not  to  hear,  "  it's  of  no  use.  I  shall  not  change  my 
mind.  You  are  going  to  be  somebody  in  the  world,  and 


A   LITTLE    WORLD 


37 


I  think  too  much  of  you  to  be  a  drag.  Besides,  I  am 
older  than  you.  You  will  understand  it  for  yourself  as 
soon  as  you  go  away  from  here.  Think  of  a  freshman 
at  Yale  —  engaged !  " 

She  laughed,  a  hearty,  ringing  laugh  ;  but  the  young 
man  stood,  motionless  and  unresponsive,  with  bowred 
head. 

"  College  life 
will  make  a  new 
world  for  you, 
Abner,  and  no- 
body can  be  glad- 
der than  I.  You 
will  write  me 
about  it,  I  know." 

"  No,"  said  Ab- 
ner the  Second, 
raising  his  head, 
"  I  shall  not 
write." 

"  Then  I  shall  be  grieved  and  disappointed,"  said  the 
other.  "  You  won't  keep  all  your  good  times  to  your- 
self. That  isn't  like  you,  Abner." 

There  was  a  pause,  and  we  dared  not  breathe. 

"  No,  I  don't  care  for  anybody  else,"  she  continued, 
"  but  I  know  for  certain  that  my  judgment  in  this  is 
better  than  yours.  I'm  older,  you  know  !  " 

And  so,  with  strong  emphasis  on  the  word  that  set 


« 


38  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

her  to  judge  her  young  lover,  she  turned,  and  the  two 
passed  out  of  sight. 

Next  morning  we  strolled  over  to  the  house  beyond 
the  common  and  found  it  unoccupied.  The  kitchen 
door  stood  wide  open,  and  the  sleepy  cat  lay  in  a  streak 
of  sunshine,  making  up  for  a  prowling  night.  The 
kettle  sang  on  the  longest  hook  suspended  from  the 
crane,  and  puffed  out  spiteful  jets  of  steam  for  its  own 
amusement.  We  waited  awhile,  with  our  tribute  of 
columbine,  wild  flowers,  and  saxifrage,  until  the  sound 
of  voices  in  the  garden  guided  us  down  the  walk  be- 
tween the  cherry-trees,  whose  falling  petals  made  a 
summer  snow  flurry. 

"  Only  jest  look  at  'er,  puttin'  her  posy-seeds  into 
the  ground,"  said  Uncle  Arad.  "  You'd  think  she's 
goin'  to  plant  an  acre  lot." 

We  had  no  other  greeting.  Uncle  Arad  sat  con- 
tentedly on  the  garden  bench,  watching  Aunt  Tishy  as 
she  dug  shallow  trenches  and  dropped  seeds  with  gen- 
erous, loving  care.  The  accustomed  tall  silk  hat  of 
another  generation  was  replaced  by  a  rakish  straw  witli 
narrow  brim  that  might  have  been  great-grandson  to 
the  other,  though  not  in  lineal  descent. 

"  I'm  doing  just  as  near  like  Nature  as  I  can,"  replied 
Aunt  Tishy,  from  the  deeps  of  a  green  gingham  sun- 
bonnet.  "  There  isn't  a  stingy  thread  about  her  any- 
where as  I  can  see,  and  I  calculate  I've  looked  close 
year  after  year.  Just  see  how  she  gives  the  seeds 


A    LITTLE    WORLD  39 

wings,  and  sticks  them  onto  the  sheep's  backs,  and 
trusts  the  birds  with  'em,  and  sows  'em  broadcast  from 
the  trees  to  be  trod  on  and  ground  up  by  wheels  and 
lost.  If  a  quarter  of  mine  come  up  they'll  do  well." 

"  Now,  don't  y'  giv'  in  to  Natur' ;  jest  expect  'em  all 
to  come  up,"  said  Uncle  Arad,  thrusting  his  stick  into 
the  soft  mould  and  making  mathematical  patterns. 
"  She'll  git  the  better  of  y'  every  time  ef  y'  do. 
Many's  the  Sunday  forenoon  I've  stood  fust  on  one 
foot  and  then  on  t'other,  a-watchin'  that  cre'tur'  on  the 
meetin'-us  steeple  a-p'intin'  nor'east ;  an'  ef  ever  I 
stayed  to  home  to  save  my  clo'es,  no  sooner  'd  the 
second  bell  stopped  ringin',  too  late  to  start,  than  round 
she'd  flop  an'  p'int  due  west,  goin'  round  by  the  nor- 
rard,  too,  like's  not,  which  ain't  a  sign  o'  good  weather." 

"  Uncle  Arad,  that's  an  angel,"  said  Aunt  Tishy, 
with  as  much  emphasis  as  was  compatible  with  her  tem- 
porary obscurity. 

"Angel  or  woman,  I  d'  know,"  said  Uncle  Arad 
addressing  us  collectively ;  "  but  she's  plaguey  con- 
trairy  all  the  same.  Don't  y'  recollect  the  time  we 
went  over  mountain  to  Isr'el  Beerses  bury  in'  ?  I  got 
ol'  Poll  hitched  up,  sun  shinin'  an'  birds  pipin'  away, 
an'  it  begun  to  thunder.  But  I  jest  tucked  in  an 
extry  buffalo  under  the  wagon  seat,  an'  a  big  umberill, 
an'  says  I  to  Aunt  Tishy,  '  Put  on  y'r  ole  things  out- 
side. Ef  it's  got  to  rain,  'twill.'  I  declar'  for  't  ef  them 
black  clouds  didn't  jest  pile  right  up  in  the  teeth  o'  the 


40  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

wind.  The  trees  sagged,  an'  the'  was  a  roar  follerin'  as 
ef  the  end  o'  the  world  'd  come.  But  I  wa'n't  goin'  to 
back  out  an'  lose  thet  fun'ral.  We  hedn't  be'n  over 
mount'in  fer  more'n  a  year ;  an'  Isr'el  was  a  sort  o' 
distant  relation.  His  father's  brother  married  my 
mother's  half-sister  for  his  second  wife,  an'  one  o'  the 
boys  was  named  Arad  for  me." 

"  And  it  didn't  rain  a  drop,"  said  Aunt  Tishy,  stand- 
ing bent  a  moment  with  both  hands  on  her  knees,  then 
straightening  to  shake  out  her  apron.  "  If  you  don't 
want  to  get  dirt  in  your  finger-nails,  just  dip  them  in 
flour  to  begin  with." 

"No  more  it  didn't,"  said  Uncle  Arad,  ignoring  the 
aside.  '•  Them  clouds  jest  rolled  round  the  mount'in 
an'  let  drop  some'ers  off  to  west'ard.  That  extry  buf- 
falo did  the  bus'ness.  You  jest  go  right  along  when  y' 
git  ready,  pay  no  sort  o'  'tention  to  the  weather,  an'  ten 
to  one  'twill  hold  up  for  ye.  But  you  stan'  on  one  foot 
a  spell,  teterin'  in  yer  mind  whether  you'll  hev  yer 
own  way  er  git  wet,  an'  you'll  ketch  it  for  sure.  Go 
right  along  about  yer  bus'ness  an'  the  weather"!!  most 
giner'ly  stan'  out  o'  yer  way.  It's  so  about  sights  o' 
things,  only  I  didn't  find  it  out  soon  enough.  A  young 
feller'll  hang  round  a  likely  girl  a  spell,  an'  mebbe  let 
somebody  get  ahead  of  him,  when  ef  he'd  jest  walked 
right  up  to  'er  fair  an'  square,  he'd  got  her,  easy's 
preachinV 

"Don't  you  be  too  sure  of  that,"  warned  Aunt  Tishy. 


A    LITTLE    WORLD  41 

"  You  didn't  get  me  first  time  asking  by  any  manner  of 
means." 

"  Nor  the  second  neither,"  chuckled  Uncle  Arad,  with 
a  great  sense  of  humor ;  "  but  I  got  ye.  That's  the 
p'int." 

"  Last  night,"  said  Aunt  Tishy  with  dignity,  as  she 
loosened  the  warm  strings  of  her  sunbonnet,  "  I  saw 
our  Abner  walking  up  toward  Peter's  Hill  with  that 
Brumley  girl." 

"•  Yes,  yes,"  said  Uncle  Arad  shrewdly,  "jest  like  'er. 
She  set  her  cap  for  'im  'long  about  the  time  we  'dopted 
him.  Anybody  could  see  that  with  half  an  eye." 

"But  she  won't  catch  him,"  said  Aunt  Tishy  with 
spirit.  "  She's  all  of  three  years  the  oldest,  if  she  does 
keep  it  close.  He'll  find  it  out  sometime.  You  can't 
cheat  a  man  forever.  She's  well  enough,  but  Abner'll 
be  apt  to  look  higher.  I  don't  believe  she's  going  to 
get  around  him." 

"  Say  nothin',  say  nothin',"  put  in  Uncle  Arad.  "  Jest 
let  'im  git  off  to  college.  He'll  find  girls  there  thicker'n 
huckleberries.  But  ef  you  go  to  sayin'  a  word,  'twill 
spile  it  all." 

And  not  one  word  could  we  whisper  to  exonerate  the 
Brumley  girl.  We  were  simply  eavesdroppers,  and 
must  hide  our  guilty  secret.  But  we  did  enjoy  saying 
to  ourselves  on  the  way  home  that  the  world's  judg- 
ments were  cruelly  wrong,  and  that  it  was  a  worth- 
while kind  of  girl  who  would  try  to  make  a  man 


42  A   HILLTOP    SUMMER 

promise  to  write  her  about  his  every-day  affairs,  and  so 
tide  over  the  time  till  he  could  see  things  clearly  him- 
self, instead  of  cutting  off  his  future  right  there  in  the 
solemn  light  of  the  dying  sun,  and  making  the  whole 
thing  tragic. 


CAP'N  SAUL 


43 


IV 


CAP  N   SAUL 

THE  rain  came  all  aslant,  and  at  times  quite  obscured 
the  angel  on  the  steeple,  that  had  flown  frantically  at 

all  points  of  the  com- 
pass since  daybreak.  The 
fruit-trees  were  bedrag- 
gled, and  a  snow  of 
cherry  blossoms  had  left 
the  trees  bare  of  beauty. 
The  battle  of  the  wind 
and  shriek  of  the  storm 
reminded  one  of  the  sea, 


44  A    HILLTOP    SUMMER 

and  suggested  Captain  Saul.  On  such  a  day,  with  no 
human  possibility  of  a  stray  customer,  might  we  not 
reasonably  expect  from  him  the  yarn  that  our  wiliest 
devices  had  thus  far  failed  to  suggest  ? 

So  we  sallied  out,  with  umbrellas  steering  us  against 
our  will,  and  mackintoshes  that  flapped  wildly  and 
flattened  us  against  the  fence  as  we  struggled  to  open 
the  gate.  There  was  a  brief  lull  as  we  crossed  the 
common,  reminding  us  of  Uncle  Arad's  wise  saw, 
"Never  give  in  to  the  weather."  But  at  Captain  Saul's 
three  steep  steps  the  angel  veered  again,  and  we  were 
driven  quite  into  the  little  shop  before  the  sudden  rear- 
charge  of  the  gale.  As  the  latch  gave  way,  the  Captain 
came  leisurely  forward,  pulling  down  his  sleeves,  and 
to  our  joy  asked  us  into  the  back  room  to  dry  off. 
Thus  far  were  the  fates  uncommonly  propitious.  While 
the  postmaster  set  our  streaming  umbrellas  in  a  tub, 
and  hung  our  mackintoshes  on  the  backs  of  his  only 
chairs,  to  drip  on  the  hearth,  we  ventured  feebly  to  ask 
for  a  paper  of  number  nine  needles  and  a  ball  of  twine. 

Captain  Saul  said  he  knew  we  must  want  them  two 
things  bad,  and  he'd  do  his  best  to  hunt  'em  up  for  us. 
There  was  an  unexpected  twinkle  in  his  eyes ;  and  when 
he  came  back,  package  in  hand,  after  opening  creaky 
drawers  that  hitched  at  the  corners,  we  owned  up  and 
begged  for  a  story. 

It  seemed  to  strike  a  deep-lying  vein  of  humor  of 
whose  very  existence  we  had  been  doubtful.  We  were, 


CAP'N  SAUL  45 

in  a  way,  at  the  Captain's  mercy,  and  could  see  a 
slowly  forming  wrinkle  of  laughter  on  his  leathery 
cheeks,  as  he  moved  around  clearing  decks  and  making 
things  taut.  His  housekeeping  seemed  accidental,  and 
dependent  on  circumstances.  We  had  hit  upon  a  day 
when  things  were  not  redded  up. 

Above  the  small  pine  table  by  the  window  that  over- 
looked the  garden  patch  hung  a  great  cage ;  and  an 
evil-eyed  parrot,  with  shining  feathers  and  cruel  beak, 
clawed  up  and  down  its  wires,  and  laughed  at  us,  but 
not  covertly.  It  was  an  embarrassing  situation;  and 
the  Captain,  with  rare  tact,  drew  the  green  cambric 
cover  over  the  cage  and  said  soothingly,  "  There,  there, 
Quilp,  good-night,  now,  and  stop  your  nonsense."  A 
gurgled  good-night  came  lazily  from  behind  the  screen, 
and  we  were  secure  from  an  interruption  that  had 
threatened  to  ruin  our  plans. 

"  You  wanted  them  things  so  bad  now,"  continued 
the  Captain,  with  fresh  access  of  humor,  "  that  I  don't 
know  but  what  I  had  ough'  to  tell  you  a  yarn  to  pay 
you  for  the  trouble  of  comin'  after  'em  such  a  day.  So 
I'll  just  hang  your  things  up  on  a  hook  and  let  'em 
drean,  and  wipe  off  a  couple  of  chairs  for  you.  You 
see  I  don't  have  comp'ny  every  day,  let  alone  cus- 
tomers." 

The  Captain  reached  to  a  high  line  over  the  stove 
for  his  dish-towel,  and  scrubbed  the  chairs  with  hospi- 
table intent ;  then  drew  an  old-style  linen  duster  over 


46  A   HILLTOP    SUMMER 

his  blue  flannel  short  sleeves  for  manners,  and  sat  down 
on  a  cracker  box  at  the  end  of  the  table,  where  a  jack- 
knife,  and  block  of  wood  partly  whittled  into  boat 
shape,  lay  at  hand. 

The  lilac  outside  bowed  and  scraped  against  the  small 
window,  and  dragged  its  heavy  blossoms  to  and  fro,  as 
if  trying  to  get  in  ;  and  a  homely  old  heirloom  of  a  clock, 
whose  case  touched  the  lowr  ceiling,  swung  its  pendulum 
in  a  mournful  way,  and  dismally  marked  the  time.  A 
mariner's  compass  hung  beside  it,  and 
seashells,  great  and  small,  perched  on 
every  ledge  that  offered  a  foothold. 
A  hammock,  close  reefed,  depended 
double  from  a  hook,  and  dingy  fishing- 
tackle  of  salty  flavor  huddled  in  a 

-j-^^^^^H        corner  behind  it. 

With  the  rash  confidence  of  youth 
we  broke  silence  by  saying  that  it  must  be  lonesome 
living  all  by  one's  self. 

"I  s'pose,"  said  the  Captain  cheerfully,  "you've  got 
Mis'  Pease  on  your  mind.  Most  folks  has.  Time 
enough  for  me  when  they've  all  had  their  say  out. 
Fact  is,  there  ain't  much  to  talk  about  here.  But  I 
don't  look  like  a  man  to  be  drove,  now,  do  I  ?  An  old 
sea  cap'n's  pretty  well  seasoned,  and  he  can  get  his 
bearin's  most  as  good  as  a  'longshoreman,  now,  can't 
he?" 

We  dared  not  deny  it. 


CAP'N  SAUL  47 

The  parrot  rustled  in  its  darkened  cage,  and  suddenly 
shrieked  "  Good-morning !  "  with  an  effect  quite  dispro- 
portioned  to  the  cause.  It  had  dragged  the  cover  down 
till  the  ring  hole  came  on  a  level  with  its  beak,  and  one 
wicked  eye  looked  at  us  askance.  The  Captain  rose 
laboriously  and  pulled  off  the  cover.  "  Got  ahead  of 
me,  just  as  you  allays  do,  you !  If  these  ladies  don't 
mind,  let  out  your  talk  now,  but  don't  you  dare  to 
swear  !  Mind  !  "  The  parrot,  with  human  contrariness, 
kept  still  with  a  show  of  not  hearing  a  word  that  had 
been  said. 

"  The  generality  of  folks,"  said  the  Captain,  drawing 
his  knife-blade  firmly  across  the  sole  of  his  shoe.  "•  man- 
ages to  get  some  sort  of  a  play  spell  into  their  threescore 
and  ten,  even  when  their  nighest  don't  suspicion  it. 
When  a  man's  stiddy  and  solemn  in  his  ways,  they 
reckon  there  ain't  any  fun  in  him.  But  I  ain't  sure  but 
what  it's  goin'  on  inside  of  the  best  of  'em.  Some 
things  ain't  made  to  show  on  top.  I  reckon  the  mains'l 
gets  jest  as  much  good  of  the  breeze  as  the  top-gallants 
does,  if  it  don't  make  words  about  it.  You  see  the  folks 
in  this  'ere  town  don't  know  as  much  as  they  think  they 
do  about  me,  and  I'd  just  as  lieves  they  wouldn't." 

It  was  a  delicate  way  of  confiding  in  us,  which  we 
appreciated. 

"  Some  folks,  now,  can  reel  off  yarns,  fathoms  of  'em, 
long  as  they  can  hold  out  at  the  windlass.  But  nothin' 
ever  come  to  me  but  once,  and  that  I've  kept  close, 


48  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

many's  the  year.  Somehow  in  the  middle  of  the  night, 
or  on  a  blowy  day  like  this  'ere,  I  get  to  thinkin', 
thinkin'  — and  mebbe  it's  good  to  get  it  off  n  my  mind. 
Mebbe  it's  better  not  to  be  buried  with  me,  as  if  'twas 
a  wrong  to  somebody  another,  which  it  wa'n't." 

The  Captain  closed  one  eye,  and  sighted  his  boat  from 
stem  to  stern. 

"  When  I  wa'n't  much  more'n  a  lad,"  he  continued 
cautiously,  "  I  was  off  to  one  of  them  heathenish  coun- 
tries that  you've  studied  about  in  your  school-books,  and 
we  went  ashore  of  a  Sunday.  My  old  mother  over 
mountain  brought  me  up  to  go  to  meetin' ;  so  I 
looked  round  for  a  steeple,  and  calculated  I'd  save  up 
my  money  whilst  the  other  boys  spreed  it.  Pretty  soon 
I  fetched  up  to  a  queer  place  with  a  cross  on  top.  You 
don't  mind  my  tellin'  you  there  was  as  pretty  a  girl  as 
ever  you  see,  a  dippin'  her  little  fingers  into  a  dish  right 
by  the  door.  I  didn't  know  it  was  holy  water  then. 
But  she  crossed  herself  and  went  in,  and  I  follered,  ex- 
pectin'  to  take  a  seat  and  hear  a  sermon.  Down  she 
went  on  her  knees,  and  I  standin'  there  like  an  ijit. 

"  You  see,  I  wa'n't  used  to  sayin'  my  prayers  afore 
folks.  Why,  I'd  as  soon  a  kissed  my  old  mother  outside 
here  on  the  green.  So  I  stood  'round  a  spell  and 
watched  when  she  went  out,  and  follered  her.  I'd  made 
up  my  mind  she  wa'n't  no  heathen,  or  she  wouldn't  say 
her  prayers.  She  wa'n't  exactly  white,  and  she  wa'n't 
a  colored  person,  by  no  manner  of  means.  She  was  just 


CAP'N  SAUL  49 

that  soft  kind  of  nice  dark  white,  with  eyes  black  as 
huckleberries,  and  white  teeth,  and  a  great  rope  of  black 
hair  braided  down  her  back,  big  as  a  ship's  cable.  You 
mayn't  be  sure  she  was  good  lookin',  but  I  give  you  my 
word  for't.  Well,  my  mind  was  made  up  in  a  minit, 
and  gener'ly  I  ain't  a  quick  man.  Only  I  wondered 
what  my  poor  old  mother  'd  say.  But  I  could  tell  her 
the  girl  was  pious,  sure. 

"  That  night  I  wTent  to  the  priest,  and  found  out  her 
name  and  all  I  could  about  her.  'Twa'n't  easy.  She 
didn't  have  any  folks,  only  her  old  grandmother,  and 
they  had  got  just  a  little  money,  enough  to  keep  'em 
along  in  a  poor  way.  I  told  the  priest  I'd  be  obligated 
to  him  if  he'd  sort  o'  keep  an  eye  on  her  till  I  come 
'round  next  time,  and  he  said  he  would.  I  didn't  know 
whether  to  believe  him  or  not ;  but  he  was  a  clever  sort 
of  fellow,  if  he  was  a  priest ;  and  if  he  didn't  quite  un- 
derstand, we  made  signs  and  sort  o'  guessed.  And  he 
could  talk  our  talk  a  little.  We  was  takin'  on  a  load  of 
—  well,  there,  no  matter.  You'd  know  where  it  was, 
mebbe,  and  it's  jest  as  well  not.  But  we  stayed  a  week  ; 
and  every  blessed  day  that  Marree,  they  called  her,  went 
to  church,  sun-up.  I  was  on  hand,  I  tell  you  !  And 
one  day  I  walked  along  with  her,  and  she  seemed  to 
know  what  I  was  try  in'  to  say.  I'd  had  my  grog  along 
with  the  boys  till  then,  but  I  tell  you  I  never  touched 
it  again  when  I  went  ashore.  We  had  to  have  it  reg'lar 
for  rations  on  the  Mary  Jane,  you  know.  That's  our 
ship. 


50  A    HILLTOP   HUMMER 

"  You  mayn't  be  willin'  to  believe  it,  but  next  year 
when  we  touched  at  them — when  we  got  there  again, 
straight  to  the  church  went  I,  and  there,  true's  you're 
alive,  was  Marree,  a  kneelin'  down  right  in  the  middle 
aisle.  When  she'd  said  her  prayers,  I  stood  stock  still, 
and  she  looked  at  me,  and  then  the  color  went  all  the 
way  up  to  her  eyes.  I  hope  she  wouldn't  mind  my 
tellin'  you.  And  we  found  the  priest,  and  he  married 
us.  Don't  sound  true,  now,  does  it?  But  so  it  was. 
And  I'm  a  married  man  to  this  day.  And  she  took  me 
to  her  house,  and  told  her  grandma,  and  the  poor  old 
lady  was  blind,  and  couldn't  see ;  so  Marree  made  me 
kneel  down  for  her  to  put  her  two  wrinkled  old  hands 
on  my  head.  She  jabbered  something  too,  but  I 
couldn't  understand ;  and  she  couldn't  hear  a  word 
I  said,  though  Marree  could  talk  to  her. 

"  Three  years  I  went  back  and  forth,  the  sea  ragin' 
and  the  wind  howlin'  and  the  sun  beatin'  down ;  and 
the  last  time  Marree  cried  to  go  home  with  me.  She'd 
got  so  we  could  talk  a  little  mixed  talk  then.  She 
could  say  some  of  my  words,  and  she'd  laugh  till  she 
cried  hearin'  me  try  her  lingo.  You  see,  I  hadn't  got 
to  be  cap'n  yet,  and  I  couldn't  take  her  with  me.  But 
she  promised  to  write,  and  just  as  soon  as  I  got  my 
ship  I  said  she  should  come  home  with  me.  I  hadn't 
ever  broke  it  to  my  old  mother,  and  she  died  afore  I 
could  make  up  my  mind  to  tell  her.  It  lay  heavy  on 
me  for  years.  It  does  now.  I'd  ought  to  have  told 


CAP'N  SAUL  51 

her,  poor  old  woman  !  but  I  knew  she'd  make  a  fuss, 
because  her  plans  was  all  staked  out  for  a  girl  over 
mountain  that  she  knew  for  certain  would  make  me  a 
good  wife.  Then  'twas  two  years  that  we  didn't  go 
there,  and  I  got  just  four  letters.  You  see  'twas  hard 
spellin'  out  our  words." 

The  captain  choked  a  little  and  coughed  to  hide  it, 
and  Quilp  laughed  fiendishly,  biting  the  wires  and 
clawing  up  and  down  the  cage. 

-  But  what  little  I  did  get  I  kept  in  mother's  Bible. 
It  was  like  a  little  bit  of  the  Good  Book  to  me,  and  it's 
stayed  there  ever  since.  I  didn't  look  the  way  I  do 
now."'  he  added  apologetically,  with  a  brave  effort  at 
cheerfulness. 

••  By  no  manner  of  means.  When  Tom  Stow  was 
home  —  him  that  shipped  first  with  me  —  'twas  last 
year  he  come  —  says  he,  '  Saul  Lamb,  you  ain't  changed 
a  mite  since  first  we  sailed  seas  together.'  But,  Lordy  ! 
I  come  home,  and  I  looked  into  that  little  glass  over 
yonder  where  I  do  my  Sunday  shavin',  and  says  I  right 
out  loud.  *Saul  Lamb,  did  you  always  look  so?' ' 

There  was  a  long  pause. 

"And  did  she  come  home  with  you?''  we  ventured  to 
ask. 

The  captain  shook  his  head  and  brushed  the  back  of 
his  hand  across  one  eye.  It  was  the  hand  that  held  the 
jack-knife. 

••  When  I  went  back  the  priest  was  dead,  and  the  old 


52  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

lady  was  dead ;  seemed  as  if  everybody  was  gone. 
Some  young  folks  tried  to  make  me  think  she  was 
underground.  But  I  didn't  believe  it.  And  one  of 
'em  brought  out  a  little  mite  of  a  baby  and  put  it  into 
my  arms  and  shut  its  eyes,  and  made  signs  that  Marree 
had  one  like  it,  and  now  both  of  'em  was  gone.  But  I 
wouldn't  believe  it.  I  darsent.  So  'round  I  went, 
tryin'  and  tryin'  to  find  out.  'Twas  the  same  old  story. 
You  see,  I  hadn't  heard  a  word  from  Marree  the  latter 
part  of  the  time.  It  was  pretty  soon  after  sailin'  that  I 
got  her  letters.  Mostly  folks  didn't  seem  to  know  what 
I  wanted.  It  just  about  killed  me  to  think  I  might  'a' 
known  and  couldn't,  because  they  couldn't  talk.  They 
wouldn't  understand,  though  I  spoke  up  loud  and  slow, 
as  if  I  was  say  in.'  a  hard  spellin'  lesson.  But  nobody 
could  say  a  thing  satisfactory.  The  more  they  tried, 
the  worse  off  I  was. 

"  Year  by  year  I  went  back,  and  every  time  I  hunted 
and  I  s'arched.  The  last  time  an  old  woman  got  hold 
of  me,  and  she  took  me  backside  the  church  and  showed 
me  a  place  with  two  boards,  a  little  and  a  big  one,  and 
some  writing  that  the  rain  had  washed  out  long  ago,  so 
there  wa'n't  three  words  left.  And  I  don't  doubt  now 
but  what  she  must  be  a  lyin'  there.  I  don't  want  to 
see  salt  water,  nor  a  ship,  nor  a  sailor  again,  as  long  as  I 
live.  She  must  be  gone,  for  she  set  great  store  by  me, 
though  you  mightn't  think  it.  If  I'd  been  commodore 
she  couldn't  have  made  more  of  me.  I  didn't  look  the 


CAP-'N  SAUL  53 

way  I  do  now.  I  was  a  lad  once,  but  'twas  years 
ago." 

There  was  a  long,  solemn  pause. 

"  When  my  posy  beans  blow,"  the  captain  continued, 
"  and  the  trees  all  round  get  white  and  bloomy,  and  I 
hear  the  sheep  a  nibblin',  and  the  birds  makin'  their 
nests  and  singin'  about  it  all,  says  I  to  myself,  '  I  don't 
know  as  I  want  any  better  heaven,  fur's  I'm  concerned.' 
I  ain't  much  of  a  religious  man,  but  I'm  gettin'  old ; 
and  when  the  wind  blows,  and  the  snow  piles  up  and 
cuts  me  off  till  I'm  all  alone,  and  fearful  lonesome,  I 
get  a  sort  of  hankerin'  after  the  Better  Country  the 
parson  tells  about.  And  it  does  seem  to  me,  if  she's 
there,  she  won't  be  a  mite  more  contented  than  she  used 
to  be,  even  with  the  little  one  to  tend,  till  I  get  there 
too.  We  can  say  all  we  want  to  there,  don't  you  think  ? 
and  understand  all  that's  said,  I  reckon,  and — I  don't 
suppose  I'll  look  the  way  I  do  now." 

We  had  blown  half-way  to  the  town  pump  when  we 
heard  him  calling,  "Say  you!  "and  turned  back.  He 
made  a  speaking  trumpet  of  his  hands,  but  we  had  to 
go  quite  back  to  the  steps  and  listen,  as  he  bent  down 
humbly  to  say  : 

'•You'll  recollect,  won't  you,  that  was  all  a  joke 
about  Mis'  Pease  ?  " 


54 


A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 


THE   WIDOW   PEASE 

AFTER  Captain  Saul's  story  we  lost  all  but  the  ordi- 
nary country  interest  in  Mrs.  Minerva  Pease,  and  were 

even  mildly  annoyed 
when  our  provident 
hostess  suggested  that 
Hilltop  would  better 
be  looking  out  for  a 
new  storekeeper. 

It  was  perfectly  un- 
derstood in  church  cir- 
cles that  Mrs.  Pease 
had  money  laid  up  in 
the  bank  far  beyond 
her  need,  and  that  she 

only  required  a  good,  smart  man  to  manage  her  farm 
and  be  taken  care  of  in  return,  which  was  clearly  an 
economic  measure  when  wages  were  high.  No  other 
motive  carried  weight  in  this  rural  community,  where 
young,  and  consequently  foolish,  people  were  supposed 
to  marry  in  haste  only  to  repent  in  the  scant  leisure 
following  matrimony  and  farm  life.  Marriage  was  an 


THE   WIDOW  PEASE  55 

affair  of  suitability,  the  adapting  of  means  to  an  end, 
and  worldly  advancement.  "  Bettering  one's  self,"  they 
called  it ;  an  opinion  wholly  confined  to  remote  country 
places. 

Mrs.  Pease  was  a  "  professor  "  whom  we  had  seen  at 
church,  in  false  front  of  blue-black  hair  and  gold-bowed 
.spectacles  ;  wearing  also  a  sombre,  if  not  severe,  expres- 
sion, as  befitting  her  widow  weeds.  Her  pew  was  on  a 
level  with  the  parson's  own,  just  across  the  aisle,  but 
fully  as  select  and  uncomfortable  as  his,  where  one  had 
to  throw  the  head  back  with  the  aching  effect  of  a  top 
check  to  get  a  fair  view  of  the  pulpit.  The  aristocratic 
front  pew-holders  were  impaled,  as  it  were,  on  the  very 
horns  of  the  altar,  but  with  a  certain  sense  of  distinction 
that  helped  offset  all  physical  inconvenience. 

We  came  by  chance  upon  Mrs.  Minerva's  house,  and, 
impelled  by  a  somewhat  vulgar  curiosity  fostered  in  the 
stimulating  atmosphere  of  Hilltop,  made  up  an  errand, 
encouraged  by  our  success  at  Captain  Saul's,  and 
planned  to  stop  at  the  door  and  ask  our  way  over  the 
mountain.  The  heat  of  the  day  was  so  great  that  we 
were  more  than  once  tempted  to  turn  back  before  we 
had  trailed  down  through  the  dust  and  rolling  stones, 
and  again  up  through  dust  and  rolling  stones  and 
thankee-ma'ams,  to  our  surprised  glimpse  of  the  house 
\ve  had  seen  from  our  own  windows. 

One  never  knew  to  what  lengths  Hilltop  roads  might 
go.  After  scrambling  up  breezy  hills  and  cork-screw- 


56 


A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 


ing  down,  down  into  still  valleys,  where  some  small 
mountain  stream  gleamed  in  the  sun  "like  a  shining 
blade  unsheathed,"  and  made  the  meadows  knee-deep 
with  tender  grass,  the  road  that  set  out  so  bravely 

might  fade  grad- 
ually into  a  cart- 
path  that  led  to 
some  great  barn- 
door, or  a  wood- 
road  that  lost  it- 
self among  the 
oaks  and  chest- 
nuts destined  for 
the  axe. 

We  came  at 
last  to  the  cool 
lane  leading 
through  trim 
rows  of  great, 
Avhite  -  blossomed 
locust  -  trees,  to 
the  side  porch  of 

a  broad-fronted  house  that  sat  down  like  a  watch- 
dog, half  at  rest,  but  wholly  alert  to  protect  the 
premises.  This  architectural  peculiarity  of  truly  old 
houses  lias  never  been  traced  to  its  source  with  any  de- 
gree of  satisfaction.  Uncle  Arad  explained  to  us  once 
that  a  roof  of  that  build  shed  rain  like  a  duck's  back, 


THE   WIDOW  PEASE  57 

and  could  be  come  at  from  behind  without  a  ladder, 
when  it  leaked.  Before  the  ending  of  the  lane,  we 
caught  a  glimpse  of  its  owner  at  her  ironing-table,  for  it 
was  yet  early  on  a  Tuesday  morning. 

The  Sabbath-day  false  front  had  disappeared,  and 
with  it  the  company  expression  of  the  wearer.  Her 
own  pretty,  crinkly  gray  hair  was  drawn  back  under  a 
rusty  black-lace  cap  with  flat  bows  ;  but  the  heat  of  the 
day,  combined  with  the  dampness  of  violent  exercise, 
had  cajoled  a  few  stray  hairs  into  little  dandelion  curls 
that  ringed  about  the  withered  face  caressingly,  as  if 
youth  had  only  turned  the  corner  and  might  be  coaxed 
back. 

We  knocked  timidly  at  the  Dutch  door  cleft  horizon- 
tally, that  stood  with  halves  hospitably  wide,  leading 
out  to  a  trim  garden,  sweet  with  old-fashioned  "  lay- 
locks "  and  '-pineys.''  The  ironing-table  stood  directly 
before  the  entrance,  taking  advantage  of  the  southerly 
breeze  that  quietly  wafted  in  the  warm  odors  of  all 
outdoors. 

"Over  mountain?"  Mrs.  Pease  repeated  incredu- 
lously after  us.  '-Over  mountain  such  a  day  as  this? 
Wouldn't  Square  'Lias  give  you  a  lift  in  his  buggy  if 
he  knew  you'd  got  to  go  ?  " 

It  was  useless  to  say  that  the  buggy  had  no  charms 
for  us.  Appearances  were  plainly  not  in  our  favor. 
We  tried  to  make  it  sound  probable  that  we  were  sim- 
ply exploring  the  country  for  pleasure,  and  preferred 
to  walk. 


58  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

"  You  wouldn't  if  you'd  been  ironing  all  the  morn- 
ing," said  Mrs.  Minerva,  with  practical  country  sense. 
•'I  s'pose  you  don't  have  a  mortal  thing  to  do.  I'm 
proper  glad  to  set  down  when  night  comes,  and  let  the 
country  take  care  of  itself.  A  lone  woman  finds  steps 
ready  provided,  and  don't  have  to  go  out  him  tin'  'em 
up.  But  do  come  in,  if  you  can  get  by  this  table,  or 
take  seats  out  there  under  the  grape-vine  and  cool  off. 
There's  quite  a  pretty  breeze  outside.  You  can  go  over 
mountain  any  day  if  you're  so  minded  ;  and  some  of 
'em  are  bound  to  be  cooler  than  this.  Tuesdays  gen'- 
rally  is  hot  days.  But  I  can  stand  that  better  than  wet 
Mondays,  that  put  your  work  all  aback." 

We  waived  the  limited  invitation  to  enter,  and  sat 
down  contentedly  under  the  arbor  that  held  two  seats 
beside  the  stone  steps,  and  extended  its  shade  as  far  as 
the  latticed  well.  A  thrifty  grape-vine  with  no  dead 
twigs  overran  the  whole,  and  managed  its  thoughtless 
tendrils  in  a  tidy  way.  Everything  about  the  premises 
spoke  of  thriftiness  and  aversion  to  loose  ends. 

We  suggested,  as  once  before  with  good  effect  at 
Captain  Saul's,  that  it  must  be  lonely  at  night  so  far 
from  neighbors,  when  one  had  no  family. 

"  You're  right  there,"  said  Mrs.  Minerva,  folding  a 
pillow-case  critically,  and  listening  to  the  heat  of  an 
iron  that  she  had  just  taken  up  from  the  stove  behind 
her.  "  I  never  could  see  why  a  clock  ticks  so  much 
louder  nights.  Half  the  time  I  don't  hear  it  till  Eben 


THE    WIDOW  PEASE  59 

Smith  goes  home  after  milkin",  and  then  I  declare  if  it 
don't  act  as  though  'twas  alive  !  I've  known  it  to  stop 
a  spell  and  hark,  and  then  go  on  again. 

"  Do  I  stay  here  all  alone  ?  Why,  bless  your  hearts. 
yes.  Eben  lives  just  beyond  the  woods  there,  where  I 
can  call  him  with  a  horn  any  time,  day  or  night.  He 
takes  his  meals  at  home,  and  glad  enough  I  am  to  miss 
the  sound  of  his  boots  for  a  spell.  But  it's  a  relief  to 
his  wife,  I  know,  to  have  him  away  the  heft  of  the 
time.  He's  as  open-mouthed  as  a  tarrier.  and  many's 
the  time  I've  wished  his  talk  would  run  to  bark. 
But  I  should  be  bad  off  for  news  if  'twa'n't  for  him.  I 
don't  s'pose  anybody  ever  dropped  an  idle  word  at  the 
store  that  he  didn't  pick  it  up  and  bring  it  home. 
Likely's  not  he  forgot  his  errand  into  the  bargain,  and 
I  had  to  do  without  codfish  over  Sunday." 

Our  hostess  mused  a  space,  and  hung  tAvo  pillow-cases 
on  a  line  above  the  stove  without  losing  the  thread  of 
discourse.  We  could  easily  connect  what  followed 
with  Eben's  reprehensible  tongue. 

'"Folks  'round  here  that  don't  have  their  own  busi- 
ness to  'tend  to  have  hard  times  getting  up  a  match  for 
me  every  now  and  then.  It  worries  them  dreadfully  to 
think  I'm  lonesome.  They  do  say  Captain  Saul  Lamb's 
lookin'  out  for  to  better  himself,"  she  added.  "'  But 
land  o'  Goshen !  I'd  as  soon  sell  off  stock  and  buy  a 
man.  Why  that  sofly  kind  couldn't  get  a  cow  home 
by  milkin'-time.  And  you  can  see  for  yourself  he  don't 


60  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

keep  things  put  up.  You  can  order  a  man  'round  that 
comes  to  you  for  his  pay  every  Saturday  night,  and  get 
a  good  deal  out  of  him  if  you  keep  at  it;  but  as  for 
havin'  one  steady  in  the  house,  day  in  and  day  out,  to 
cook  for,  and  wash  and  iron  for  —  starched  shirt  bosoms 
and  collars  —  land!  what  fools  some  women  be.  When 
I  don't  feel  like  settin'  table  I  just  go  into  the  butt'ry 
and  draw  a  chair  up  to  the  window  lookin'  out  on  the 
meadow,  and  pick  a  cold  chicken-bone,  mebbe,  or  dish 
out  some  baked  beans  to  eat  with  my  cold  coffee,  and 
then  wash  my  cup  and  spoon  and  saucer.  That's  all 
there  is  to  it.  But  think  of  a  man's  takin'  vittles  that 
way !  I'd  as  li'ves  have  a  cow  in  my  butt'ry. 

"  No,  I  didn't  do  that  way  when  I  was  young.  Mr. 
Pease  was  a  good  provider ;  and  we  had  things  as  com- 
fortable as  the  best,  and  thanked  Providence  for  it. 
His  folks  left  him  some  money  about  the  time  we 
begun  to  housekeep.  We  had  one  little  girl  too. 
Irene,  we  called  her,  after  his  mother.  Year  after  year 
we  laid  up  money  for  her  and  allowed  she'd  marry  well, 
and  have  the  farm  after  us,  and  a  houseful  of  young 
ones,  like  as  not.  It  hadn't  ever  dawned  on  us  that 
she  would  go  first  and  leave  us  all  alone.  It  was  like 
wipin'  out  a  long  sum  on  a  slate.  We  knew,  of  course, 
that  one  of  us  would  be  obliged  to  go  first,  sooner  or 
later,  and  we  used  to  talk  it  over  how  the  one  that  was 
left  would  live  with  Irene.  I  used  to  tell  him  just 
where  to  keep  his  clothes  and  not  make  trouble  the 


THE    WIDOW  PEASE  61 

way  some  old  folks  will,  leavin'  things  at  loose  ends. 
I  didn't  want  him  to  be  a  burden  on  Irene. 

"  I  can  see  her  now,  stanclin'  on  her  little  cricket  that 
he  made  for  her  when  she  was  four  years  old;  stanclin' 
back  there  by  the  sink  wipin'  dishes  for  me.  Her  hair 
was  real  pretty,  and  I  braided  it  in  two  little  round 
braids  that  never  got  fuzzy.  Why,  she  was  just  like  a 
little  woman,  though  it  wouldn't  have  been  proper  to 
tell  her  so.  She  pieced  a  whole  bed-quilt  before  she 
five  was  years  old ;  little  bits  of  squares. 

4%  You  see,  she  didn't  go  to  school,  and  I  didn't  let 
her  have  children  here  to  play  with,  so  she  had  plenty 
of  time.  She  was  better  off  alone.  She  had  her  rag 
babies  and  a  white  kitten ;  and  I  never  left  her  home 
when  I  went  to  meetin'  or  sewin'  society,  or  a  funeral, 
or  for  a  walk  in  the  buryin'-ground  Sundays  after  tea. 
Why,  she  knew  more  than  four  hundred  Bible  verses, 
if  you'll  believe  it,  before  her  bed-quilt  was  done. 
Four  hundred  and  twenty-seven  it  was.  She  used  to 
say,  '  Suffer  the  little  children  to  come  and  see  me,  and 
forbid  them  not.'  And  it  affected  her  pa.  He  wouldn't 
let  me  change  it,  and  so  she  always  said  it  that  way. 
But  he  didn't  have  the  care  of  her  bringing  up.  He 
was  for  lettin'  her  go  to  school  with  all  the  rag-tag  from 
down  the  hill." 

Mrs.  Minerva  took  up  the  tip  of  her  apron  and  passed 
it  across  one  eye,  while  with  the  other  she  watched  the 
iron  moving  back  and  forth  over  the  shining  table- 
cloth. 


62  A    HILLTOP    SUMMER 

"  I  don't  want  any  little  angel  with  a  harp,"  she  said 
resolutely,  though  with  a  slight  hoarseness  in  her  voice. 
"I  want  just  my  little  Ireny  standin'  on  her  cricket  to 
wipe  dishes.  She  wanted  to  be  buried  in  her  red  shoes, 
and  so  she  was.  Some  folks  thought  'twas  a  waste, 
and  that  'twas  wrong  to  indulge  her  right  on  the  very 
brink  of  eternity.  You  don't  think  it  was  ?  No  more 
do  I ;  or  them  little  red  shoes  would  be  settin'  up 
chamber  now,  along  with  her  little  dresses,  in  the  north 
closet  —  two  little  pink  sprigged  calicoes  and  a  brown 
one  for  every  day  hangin'  up  there  now.  I  washed 
'em  and  ironed  'em  and  hung  'em  away  with  my  own 
hands  the  day  after  the  funeral.  But  they  wasn't 
starched,  and  so  they  don't  look  like  her  when  she  had 
them  on.  I'll  take  you  up  to  see  them  some  day  along 
the  last  of  the  week  if  you  happen  in,  but  not  of  a 
Saturday.  That's  bakin'-day. 

"  You  seem  so  kind  of  interested  that  I've  let  on  the 
way  Eben  Smith  does  when  I  give  him  chores  'round 
the  house.  I  never  told  anybody,  not  even  the  minis- 
ter, all  this.  When  you  go  along  home  past  the  buryin'- 
ground,  just  look  over  beyond  Aunt  Rachel's  headstone, 
and  you'll  see  a  little  white  picket  fence,  and  a  marble 
slab  with  a  lamb  lyin'  down  on  it.  It  cost  me  forty-two 
dollars  and  seventy-five  cents ;  and  I  wouldn't  have 
begrudged  it  if  it  had  been  fifty  dollars  in  gold.  He 
lies  over  on  the  right  hand  of  where  I'm  goin'  to  be 
laid.  Six  years  come  Thanksgivin'  since  he  passed 


THE    WIDOW  PEASE 


63 


away.  You  won't  find  any  stone,  because  when  I  get 
time  to  "tend  to  it,  and  find  something  to  my  mind,  I'm 
goin'  to  have  a  monument  for  both  of  us.  It  won't  cost 
much  more  than  two  good  stones,  and  'twill 
make  a  sight  more  show  for  the  money. 
Probably  they  could  see  it  from  'Squire 
Hopton's.  If  he'd  died  when  we  used  to 
talk  it  over  about  livin'  with  Irene,  he'd 
been  a  young  man.  I  used  to  think  any- 
body that  lived  to  be  forty  had  got  all  the 
good  there  was  out  of  this  world,  and  had 
ought  to  be  ready  for  the  next.  Queer, 
ain't  it,  that  you  don't  never 
seem  too  old  to  yourself  to  keep 
right  along ! " 

Going   home  we   picked   our 
way  across    the  neglected   mounds   of 
the   old   burying-ground,  and  through 
tangled  grass  that  shed  its  seed  on  us 
as  generously  as  if  we  had  been  good, 
soil,  and  leaned  for  a  while  on  the  little 
picket  fence  that  guarded  the  sleeping  child 
from  improper  company. 

Beneath  the  white  lamb  we  read :  "  Irene, 
aged  five  years,  three  months,  and  two  days, 
such  is  the  Kingdom  of  Heaven." 

Then  we  sat  down  in  the  deep  grass,  and   plucked 
daisies  and  red  clover-heads,  and  reached  them  through 


For  of 


64  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

the  fence  till  the  small,  tidy  mound  was  quite  littered 
with  them ;  knowing  that  no  little  hands  could  ever 
place  their  tribute  on  it.  One  of  us  said,  "  Poor  little 
Ireny  ! "  and  as  we  sat  there  till  dinner-time  talking  it 
over,  we  indulged  fond  hopes  in  an  earthly  way  that  in 
the  select  society  where  little  Ireny  had  gone  without 
her  mother,  hosts  of  children  might  be,  not  suffered,  but 
invited  to  come  and  see  her ;  that  they  might  play 
together  in  the  bright  sand  on  the  seashore,  and  fashion 
sand  pies  in  celestial  scallop  shells,  and  wade  in  the 
shining  River  of  Life,  and  sail  boats  on  its  still  waters  ; 
that  they  might  wander  to  pick  daisies  and  weave  dan- 
delion chains  in  the  green  pastures,  shouting  their 
merry  songs  in  chorus  till  the  heavens  rang  again,  and 
harpers  with  golden  harps  should  pause  to  listen  to  the 
children's  praise  ;  that  at  night,  with  hands  full  of 
heavenly  trash  and  white  raiment  stained  with  grass 
and  flowers,  they  might  dance  along  the  starlit,  dewy 
way  that  led  to  the  homes  of  graver  but  still  tender  and 
gracious  older  angels,  without  the  shadow  of  a  fear  or 
the  faint  memory  of  past  reproof  to  dim  the  brightness 
of  their  happy  eyes. 


A    HOT  SUNDAY 


65 


VI 


A   HOT   SUNDAY 

IT  was  without  doubt  a  hot  Sunday.  The  angel  on 
the  steeple  trumpeted  persistently  towards  the  south. 
The  great  elm  between  the  meet- 
ing-house and  parsonage  drooped 
its  leaves,  and  not  a  shiver  of 
breeze  lifted  them.  Even  the 
sheep  stopped  nibbling  the 
grass-blades  they  had  learned 
by  heart,  and  lay  down  in  any 
rag  of  shade  at  hand.  The 
horses  fastened  under  the  low 
sheds  stamped  and  whisked  in 
vain.  Fly  weather  had  come. 
Imitation  bumble-bees  left  piles 
of  sawdust  in  the  stalls,  and 
buzzed  and  worked  on  the  Sab- 
bath Day,  grinding  out  round 
homestead  holes  with  the  accu- 
racy of  an  auger,  and  exasper- 
ating the  overheated  fancy  of  many  a  restless  farm- 
horse. 


66  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

The  meeting-house  door  stood  wide  open,  beguiling 
one  to  enter  with  a  vain  show  of  coolness.  Within,  the 
pulpit  rose  high  and  forbidding,  a  box  with  two  doors 
set  on  a  pedestal,  and  approached  on  either  hand  by  a 
winding  stair  patterned  to  fit  a  narrow  preacher.  Tra- 
dition asserts  that  one,  Jared  Lines,  failed  to  attempt 
the  passage,  and  preached  from  the  communion-table, 
finding  text  and  lessons  in  a  pocket  Testament,  and 
thus  detracting  from  the  remoteness  and  solemnity  of 
the  services.  A  sermon  unaccompanied  by  thumps  on 
the  ancient  Bible,  which  in  times  of  stress  was  often 
lifted  bodily  and  dropped  on  its  cushion  with  much  stir- 
ring up  of  dust,  was  regarded  by  the  elders  as  a  light 
production,  savoring  more  of  worldly  learning  and  dis- 
play than  of  spiritual  quickening  and  upbuilding. 

The  walls  of  the  meeting-house  were  covered  with 
paper  hangings  of  a  mournful  character,  which  repre- 
sented Pharaoh,  a  stout  figure  with  muscular  arms, 
again  and  again  on  the  point  of  being  overwhelmed  with 
his  chariots  and  the  horsemen  thereof.  Wherever  the 
eye  turned,  it  encountered  Pharaoh  on  a  brown  ground 
with  lighter  brown  horses  and  chariots,  and  a  deep- 
brown  thunderous  sky  overhead.  The  pattern  repeated 
itself  geometrically  up,  down,  and  across.  It  was  be- 
wildering to  follow  the  Pharaohs,  and  quite  distracting 
if  one  tried  also  to  keep  the  thread  of  the  sermon. 

At  the  extreme  right  of  the  pulpit,  there  was  a  break 
in  the  figure  very  restful  to  the  eye,  and  also  to  the 


A   HOT  SUNDAY  67 

fancy,  where  the  paper  had  failed  in  length  and  been 
pieced  economically  with  the  effect  of  a  rescue,  the 
upper  chariot  grappling  with  the  lower,  and  assisting 
the  hopeful  imagination.  Mrs.  Elias  Hopton  told  us 
that  if  possible  the  defect  would  have  been  remedied 
years  ago,  because  it  was  bad  for  the  children  to  get  an 
idea  that  Pharaoh  might  have  been  saved  after  all,  and 
the  Providential  design  made  to  miscarry.  That  was 
the  sentiment,  though  not  here  expressed  in  the  words 
of  our  hostess,  which  had  no  graphic  quality  to  enable 
them  to  maintain  that  hold  on  the  mind  so  essential  to 
accuracy  in  quotation. 

From  the  same  source  we  heard  with  much  pleasure 
the  story  of  the  old  minister  from  Harris,  over  moun- 
tain, who  exchanged  pulpits  one  Sunday  with  Parson 
Lum,  and  gave  out  the  first  hymn,  beginning  with 

"  Lord,  what  a  barren  land  is  this, 
That  yields  us  no  supply.'' 

Now,  Harris  had  nothing  whereof  to  brag  over  Hilltop 
in  point  of  fertility ;  and  its  young  farmers  were  wont 
to  cast  envious  eyes  at  the  pumpkins  and  pound  sweet- 
ings displayed  by  the  Hilltop  youth  at  the  county  fair ; 
a  decent  sort  of  jealousy  that  keeps  the  country  from 
stagnation. 

Uncle  Arad  Ridge  led  the  singing  in  those  far-back 
days,  striking  the  pitch  with  his  tuning-fork,  and  loudly 
announcing  the  name  of  the  tune  to  be  sung,  while  the 


68  A   HILLTOP    SUMMEll 

congregation  rose,  and,  turning  their  backs  011  the  minis- 
ter, faced  the  choir.  Mrs.  Hopton,  who  was  quite  a 
girl  at  the  time,  though  still  in  pantalets,  remembered 
well  the  awe  she  felt  when,  above  the  ring  of  the  tun- 
ing-fork, the  name  "•  Harris,"  boldly  given  out,  struck 
the  congregation  pale.  But  they  joined  the  choir  in 
singing  the  good  old  tune  as  reverently  as  possible,  fear- 
ing lest  some  judgment  should  befall  the  leader  for  his 
levity.  "  And  just  one  year  from  that  time,  if  you'll 
believe  it,"  the  'Squire's  wife  added,  "  his  Ann  was  laid 
away  in  the  burying-ground."  It  was  considered  the 
proper  thing  to  stand  up  for  Hilltop,  but  not  to  the 
extent  of  making  light  of  sacred  things  on  the  Sabbath 
Day. 

The  momentary  coolness  of  the  church  as  we  entered 
the  door  was  delusive,  and  an  odor  of  peppermint, 
combined  with  the  irregular  waving  of  palm-leaf  fans, 
made  the  air  vibrate.  Bees  buzzed  through  the  open 
windows,  and  bumped  their  heads  whenever  there  was 
anything  to  hit,  not  perceiving  that  the  readiest  way 
out  was  that  by  which  they  came  in.  The  bald-headed 
spread  ample  handkerchiefs  over  their  crowns,  while 
foolish  younglings  dodged  and  tittered.  Outside  Bob 
White  called,  with  no  regard  for  the  proprieties,  and 
even  walked  up  and  down  the  hillside  in  full  view  of 
those  who  owned  window  sittings.  A  pair  of  bobolinks 
sat  close  by,  he  of  the  black  vest  and  patched  coat  on 
the  bending  tip  of  a  low  cedar-bush,  while  his  brown 


A    HOT  SUNDAY  69 

little  wife  exchanged  ideas  with  him  from  the  ground. 
By  the  aid  of  a  key  we  might  have  learned  all  their 
secrets ;  but  they  looked  as  conscious  and  secure  as  two 
students  of  Volapiik  setting  out  to  enjoy  themselves. 
When  the  black  and  white  coat  flew  to  the  next  bush, 
trilling  and  rolling  his  melody  over  and  over  as  he 
went,  the  little  wife  followed  silently  and  perched 
yards  away,  while  he  kept  up  the  conversation. 

The  bell  ceased  its  melancholy  toll  as  the  new  can- 
didate walked  briskly  up  the  right-hand  aisle,  dropped 
a  very  worldly  looking  straw  hat  on  the  chair  beside 
the  communion-table,  and  mounted  fearlessly  to  his 
high  perch.  He  looked  so  painfully  young  and  con- 
scious when  his  glance  swept  the  audience,  that  we  felt 
abashed  for  him  and  looked  the  other  way.  wishing  he 
might  have  omitted  the  new  moustache,  and  diverted 
its  effort  towards  side  whiskers.  The  old  minister  had 
died  in  the  winter,  and  ever  since  the  people  had  been 
sorely  tried  by  new-fledged  ideas  that  beat  about  to  no 
purpose. 

But  before  we  had  adjusted  our  minds  to  judge  from 
appearances  whether  or  no  this  candidate  could  be  a 
success,  there  was  a  new  diversion.  A  tall  young  girl 
came  up  the  left-hand  aisle,  and  with  an  air  of  uncon- 
sciousness knelt  for  a  moment,  the  only  figure  in  the 
four  reverse  pews.  She  was  what  the  novelist  of  to-day 
is  fond  of  calling  a  symphony ;  and  the  effect  was 
peculiarly  cool  and  refreshing.  Beyond  the  nodding 


70  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

red  roses  on  high  stalks,  the  tall  poppies  and  chrys- 
anthemums, the  yellow  daisies  and  carnations,  that 
bloomed  above  the  rural  hats  of  the  Hilltop  girls,  the 
slim  figure  in  pale  green,  with  a  pond  lily  at  her  belt 
and  a  white  sailor  hat  coiled  about  with  a  filmy  bit  of 
illusion,  looked  like  a  water-lily  herself,  sheathed  in 
coolness. 

The  young  minister  foolishly  allowed  his  wandering 
glance  to  be  arrested  for  a  moment ;  then  blushed  visi- 
bly as  he  turned  to  the  great  Bible  and  failed  to  find 
the  place  for  his  text.  But  we  considered  that  there 
would  be  time  enough  for  that  after  the  opening  prayer 
and  hymn,  while  the  contribution  for  foreign  missions 
was  being  taken  up. 

Just  then  an  unprovoked  breeze  slipped  in  from  no- 
where in  particular,  and  died  out  again  as  soon  as  it  had 
performed  its  mission,  whisking  off  two  or  three  leaves 
of  the  sermon  that  lay  beside  the  Bible.  Mrs.  Hopton 
pulled  the  sleeve  of  her  husband,  who  turned  slowly 
from  his  comfortable  attitude  to  ask  "  What  ?  "  and  the 
two  deacons  started  simultaneously  from  the  same  side 
of  the  church,  and  simultaneously  sat  down  again. 
Once  more  they  rose  together,  with  much  confusion  of 
face,  in  the  solemn  stillness  of  the  house,  when  the 
young  lady,  seeing  the  leaves  alight  near  her  own  pew, 
picked  them  up  carefully  and  walked  with  them  to  the 
foot  of  the  pulpit  stairs. 

The  great  Rachel  in  her  prime  could  not  have  done 


A    HOT   SUNDAY  71 

the  act  with  more  gracious  unconsciousness  ;  but  the 
youth  who  opened  the  pulpit  door  that  stuck,  and  came 
down  to  receive  his  papers  at  her  hands,  stumbled  in  his 
confusion,  and  the  door  banged  as  it  saved  him  from  a 
fall. 

"That's  the  Brumley  girl,"  whispered  Mrs.  Hopton 
behind  her  fan,  as  she  emphasized  the  fact  with  one  el- 
bow. "Ain't  afraid  o'  nothin',  and  never  was." 

After  this  prelude  the  sermon  turned  out  but  a  mild 
affair,  quite  in  keeping  with  the  sultry  weather,  though 
everybody  was  wide  awake  at  the  beginning,  and  dis- 
posed to  be  critical.  But  any  provocation  to  deep  feel- 
ing or  unusual  stirring  up  to  spiritual  effort  must  have 
fallen  flat  on  the  congregation  that  day.  Fans  moved 
slowly  and  more  slowly,  and  raked  against  bonnets  and 
slapped  the  backs  of  the  next  pews,  momentarily  awak- 
ing the  sleeper.  Mrs.  Elias  nodded  forward  as  the 
'Squire's  head  fell  back,  and  only  the  younger  portion  of 
the  audience  were  in  condition  to  judge  of  the  sermon, 
its  merits  or  defects.  We  decided  that  the  ayes  would 
have  it,  as  happened  some  weeks  later  on.  For  the  el- 
ders could  give  no  reason  why  the  young  man  should 
not  be  called  ;  and  so,  after  several  hearings,  they  reluc- 
tantly yielded  to  the  expressed  wish  of  the  younger 
members,  who  were  growing  to  have  their  own  way 
about  things  in  an  alarming  nineteenth-century  fashion. 

As  we  went  out  after  the  benediction,  leaving  the 
deacons  to  shake  the  minister's  hand  loosely  and  allow 


72  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

him  the  privilege  of  opening  the  conversation,  our  host- 
ess detained  us  in  the  vestibule,  and  beckoned  the  young 
lady  from  the  other  aisle. 

"  Gracie ! "  she  called  in  a  loud  whisper.  "  Come 
over  here  a  minute.  I  want  to  make  you  acquainted 
with  my  two  young  ladies  from  the  city.  We  think 
they're  about  right.  And  they're  mighty  fond  of  know- 
ing all  us  country  folks." 

"  Couldn't  get  a  soul  to  stay  with  your  grandma  be- 
fore, could  you  ?  Haven't  seen  you  out  to  church  before 
this  summer,"  added  Mrs.  'Lias  patronizingly.  "  But 
how  in  this  mortal  world  did  you  ever  do  that,  Grace  ?  " 

"Did  I  do  what?" 

•'  Why,  walk  right  out  in  meetin'  and  pick  up  them 
papers  !  There  wa'n't  another  girl  there  darst  do  it  to 
save  her  life,  hardly.  And  the  men,  they  all  held  back 
too.  My  man,  he  didn't  happen  to  see  it  in  time." 

"  Why,  the  young  man  had  to  have  his  sermon,  and  I 
was  nearest." 

"  Well !  if  'twas  anybody  but  you,  Grace  Brumley.- 
Why,  you  couldn't  have  hired  me  to  do  it !  " 

"No,  nor  me,"  said  Miss  Brumley  simply.  "There 
was  nothing  else  to  be  done,  and  I  didn't  stop  to  think 
about  it.  Why  was  it  any  harder  than  walking  into 
church,  or  out  of  it,  or  across  the  green  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  can't  say,"  said  Mrs.  'Lias  with  a  sigh  ;  "  but 
I  couldn't  have  done  it  no  way  —  no,  not  for  a  kingdom." 

As  Miss  Brumley  bade  us  good-morning  and  walked 


A   UOT  SUNDAY  73 

away,  a  little  ripple  of  conversation  came  in,  like  the 
untoward  breeze,  from  nowhere  in  particular.  Every- 
body seemed  to  be  talking  at  once,  as  in  times  of  politi- 
cal excitement. 

"  Deary  me  !  "  said  Aunt  Tishy  gently,  as  she  raised 
her  large  umbrella.  "  Did  you  ever  see  the  beat  of  it?  " 

"  Brass  enough  to  make  a  kittle,  and  sass  enough  to 
fill  it !  "  piped  Uncle  Arad,  in  the  high  key  that  deaf 
people  approve  of  in  others. 

"•  I  started  to  get  up  some'ers  near  Brother  Biglow," 
said  the  younger  deacon,  "  but  he  got  ahead  of  me 
twice,  and  it  sorter  took  all  the  wind  out  o'  my  sails." 

"  Your  sails  wa'n't  set  fur  enough  to  wind'ard,  young 
man,"  said  Cap'n  Saul  heartily.  "That's  what  made 
'em  flop." 

The  deacon,  who  was  only  young  by  courtesy  and  a 
bachelor  to  boot,  blushed  before  all  the  nodding  roses 
that  were  coming  down  the  gallery  stairs,  and  turned 
aside  in  some  confusion,  crushing  the  brim  of  his  brown 
straw  hat  against  'Squire  Hopton's  broad  shoulders. 

The  young  minister  shook  hands  again  with  the 
elder  deacon,  and  to  the  relief  and  disappointment  of 
every  one,  accepted  our  host's  invitation  to  dinner. 
He  was  a  nice  young  fellow,  scarcely  older  than  our- 
selves ;  just  a  boy  let  loose  from  the  Theological  Semi- 
nary to  try  his  clipped  wings.  We  had  a  pleasant 
nooning  together.  It  was  like  entertaining  a  bright 
young  freshman,  just  come  to  his  university  with  ideas 


74  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

and  good  manners,  and  not  yet  spoiled  by  girls  or 
moulded  by  upper-classmen.  He  gave  us  the  best 
he  had  without  any  reserves,  without  one  apparent 
provident  thought  of  laying  up  good  phrases  for  the 
next  sermon,  or  memorizing  his  own  fresh  ideas.  We 
liked  him  genuinely,  and  resolved  to  say  a  good  word 
for  him  whenever  we  had  a  chance. 

When  the  early  afternoon  service  was  ended,  our 
host  proposed  hitching  up  and  taking  him  over  moun- 
tain before  milking-time  ;  but  to  his  surprise  the  young 
man  said  he  preferred  to  walk,  arid  would  wait,  if  con- 
venient, till  evening. 

Mrs.  Hopton,  who  stood  in  wholesome  awe  of  a 
minister  in  any  stage,  explained  with  much  hesitation 
and  choosing  of  words,  that  it  was  not  the  custom  of 
the  house  to  prepare  supper  on  the  day  of  rest,  but  that 
he  was  welcome  to  all  the  bread  and  milk  and  cottage 
cheese  he  could  eat,  along  with  the  family.  It  jarred 
on  her  feelings  not  a  little,  we  could  see.  to  have  the 
minister  throw  himself  down  on  the  grass  under  the 
crooked  apple-trees  as  if  he  had  been  but  a  common 
man,  and  later  on,  swing  himself  by  one  arm  from  a 
bough  within  jumping  distance,  to  straighten  his  mus- 
cles. But  being  a  reasonable  woman  she  kept  these 
things  in  her  own  heart,  and  did  not  try  to  influence 
her  husband's  vote  when  the  committee  meeting  was 
called  in  September. 

We  had  our  bread  and  milk  under  the  trees,  with  no 


A   HOT  SUNDAY  75 

grace  preceding.  But  the  birds  sang  vespers  in  a  heav- 
enly way,  and  nobody  felt  the  ceremony  less  sacred  for 
the  omission.  The  sun  was  still  making  prisms  of 
Abner  the  Second's  windows  over  on  Davy's  Hill,  when 
our  guest  picked  himself  up  and  bade  us  a  gracious 
good-by.  We  had  been  talking  about  Abner,  and  tell- 
ing our  new  friend  where  to  find  him  over  mountain. 
For  Abner  was  spending  all  his  summer  days  studying 
for  examinations  in  the  hope  of  entering  Yale  in  the 
autumn. 

The  young  minister  Avaved  us  a  final  farewell  from 
the  verge  of  the  common,  and  we  watched  his  boyish 
step  till  the  sudden  descent  of  the  hill  dropped  him 
from  sight.  In  the  hollow  he  appeared  again  for  an  in- 
stant, like  an  object  seen  from  the  wrong  end  of  a  tele- 
scope ;  and  Mrs.  Hopton,  shading  her  eyes  as  she  looked 
after  him  with  motherly  interest,  cried  out  suddenly :  — 

u  Oh,  pa  !  do  go  after  him  as  fast  as  ever  you  can. 
He's  took  the  wrong  road  a'ready." 

But  the  'Squire,  who  had  just  set  down  two  foaming 
milk-pails,  stood  on  tiptoe,  and  comprehending  the  val- 
ley in  one  long  look,  shook  his  head  knowingly. 

"Tain't  more'n  a  couple  o' miles  further  that  way, 
mother,  and  he'll  have  to  go  straight  past  the  Brum- 
leys.  I  guess  she  won't  let  him  get  lost.  Mebbe 
there'll  be  a  sudden  breeze  down  there,  and  Grace  — 
she's  a  master  hand  at  pickin'  up  the  pieces.  But  I 
bet  Aunt  Tishy'll  squirm  if  the  parson  takes  a  shine 


76  A   HILLTOP    SUMMER 

to  Grace  Brumley.  What's  the  matter  of  her,  you 
say?" 

"  Now,  pa,  hush !  "  warned  Mrs.  'Lias  with  uncom- 
mon vigor  and  authority.  "  You  and  Aunt  Tishy  and 
Uncle  Arad  and  all  of  'em  knows  that  there  ain't  a  mor- 
tal thing  the  matter  of  her.  She's  just  as  nice  a  girl  as 
there  is  anywheres  about,  only  she  ain't  a  bit  like  the 
rest  of  us.  That's  all  there  ever  was  against  her,  any- 
way. Her  folks  died  when  she  was  little,  and  she  and 
grandma  live  all  alone  down  there.  There  was  a  house 
left  'em  and  not  much  else,  and  folks  think  Grade  'd 
rather  read  than  work.  But  I  don't.  Why,  she  might 
have  kept  school.  She's  smart  enough.  But  Grandma 
Brumley' s  losin"  her  sense,  and  they  say  it's  a  job  to 
take  care  of  her.  Grade  can't  leave  her  alone,  even  of 
a  Sunday. 

"  They're  'Piscopal.  You  see  how  she  went  down  on 
her  knees  to  say  her  prayers  this  morning.  She  never 
would  talk  about  herself  or  anything  belongin'  to  her. 
But  one  of  the  neighbors  happened  in  pretty  often,  and 
she  found  out  in  some  way  unbeknown  to  me  that 
Gracie  done  fancy-work  and  sent  it  to  town  by  the 
stage-driver.  And  they  do  say,  but  he  won't  tell 
what  he  fetches  and  carries,  that  she's  took  to  makin' 
jellies  and  such  this  year.  There's  sights  o'  berries 
all  round  there.  I  ain't  one  to  blame  a  girl  for  livin' 
easy  whilst  she  can.  It's  good  to  recollect  when  you're 
head  over  ears  with  a  family. 


A    HOT  SUNDAY  77 

"  Abner,  now,  's  mighty  fond  of  her.  That's  the 
pinch  with  the  old  folks.  They  think  she's  set  her  cap 
for  him,  'specially  since  he's  goiu'  to  college.  You  see, 
when  he  does  marry  they  want  him  to  get  something 
uncommon.  Nobody  quite  good  enough  here.  Why, 
some  folks  will  tell  you  that  rosberries  from  over  moun- 
tain's ever  so  much  better  than  ours.  Mebbe  the  soil 
does  make  a  difference.  But  folks  turn  out  just  about 
the  same  wherever  you  raise  'em." 

'•  They're  just  about  the  surest  crop  there  is  any- 
where," said  the  'Squire  musing.  "  You  drive  over  the 
barrens  twenty  miles  east  'o  here,  and  if  they  can't  raise 
stuff  enough  to  keep  'em  alive  skercely,  there's  no  end 
to  the  young  ones.  It's  the  surest  crop  there  is." 

"  Well,"  put  in  Mrs.  'Lias,  "  I  do  hope  the  minister 
hasn't  got  lost.  I  didn't  once  think  to  ask  him  if  he'd 
got  a  mother.  It's  just  about  as  hot  since  sundown, 
and  I'll  go  up  garret  and  open  the  windows.  Not  a  mite 
of  a  breeze.  But  wa'n't  it  queer  the  way  it  started  up, 
not  a  cloud  anywheres,  and  blew  the  sermon  off  !  First 
I  thought  'twas  a  judgment ;  but  now  when  I  turn  it 
over  in  my  mind  since  he  went  away,  it  seems  almost  as 
if  it  might  turn  out  to  be  a  providence.  You  never 
know." 

"Well,  mother,"  interrupted  the  'Squire,  "if  you've 
got  to  guessin'  out  things,  I  reckon  I'd  as  good's  lock 
up  and  go  to  bed.  Sure  you  shut  down  that  milkroom 
window  ?  We've  got  to  have  some  crackin'  thunder  to 
keep  us  awake  after  a  spell  like  this." 


78  A    HILLTOP    SUMMED 


VII 
HILLTOP'S  DESOLATION 

LYING  in  a  hammock  day  after  day,  under  maple- 
trees  seventy  feet  high,  and  looking  up  at  the  backs  of 
the  leaves  overhead,  one  comes  to  feel  that  each  leaf 
is  an  old  friend  whose  face  will  greet  us  when  it  turns 
around.  There  were  other  trees  at  the  'Squire's  that 
we  loved :  ragged  locusts  catching  the  filmiest  breezes, 
and  turning  them  over  to  the  maples,  —  locusts,  honey- 
sweet  in  flowering  time.  And  there  were  stunted  and 
crooked  apple-trees  that  blossomed  heartily  when  their 
time  came,  making  up  in  sweetness,  like  many  a  human 
being,  what  nature  had  denied  them  of  grace.  But 
best  of  all  we  loved  the  maples.  Though  acres  of  oaks 
and  chestnuts,  beeches  and  hickories,  waved  towards 
the  west,  just  beyond  the  home  meadow,  and  we  could 
hear  from  their  depths  the  always  unanswered  question 
of  the  oven-bird  as  we  swung  under  the  nearer  shadows, 
the  woodland  did  not  belong  to  us.  The  homelier, 
e very-day  birds  nested  in  our  own  two  trees,  and  em- 
braced us  in  the  privacy  of  their  domestic  affairs,  till 
we  felt  that  they  would  miss  us  quite  as  much  as  we 


HILLTOP'S  DESOLATION 


79 


should  mourn  them,  when  October  came  and  sent  us 
back  to  the  dust  and  racket  of  the  town. 

This  August  day  had  been  intensely,  bewilderingly 
hot.  The  air  vibrated  dizzily,  and  we  felt  the  weight 
of  the  sky  above  our  heads  as  if  it  had  been  the  roof 
of  an  uncertain  steamer-berth  or  the  ceiling  of  an  air- 
less sleeping-car. 
( )nly  here  we  had 
what  there  was  of 

freshness  and  pu- ,  %, 

l"0 

rity,  with  no  fear  \  \ 

that  our  modicum 
of  air    had   been 
thrice  breathed  before 
it    reached    us.      The 
cows  in  the  meadow  left  the 
sunny  slope  where  they  ate 
grass,    and     thought    grass, 
and   dreamed   grass,  all  the 
day  long,  and  walked  in  sol- 
emn, undulatory  procession  to  the  little  brook  corner ; 
and   two   cow-buntings   followed   persistently,   darting 
and  rising,  but  never  far  away  from  their  leaders. 

The  heat  grew  appalling.  Even  our  comfortable  host- 
ess brought  out  a  low  rocking-chair  and  a  palm-leaf 
fan,  and  sat  down  idly  in  the  shade  of  the  nearer  maple, 
apologizing  that  this  was  one  of  the  days  when  she  was 
rich  enough  without  work.  The  bees  reproached  us 


80  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

with  their  busyness ;  humming-birds  dived  into  the  red 
trumpets  of  the  great  creeper  at  the  porch,  fanning 
themselves  as  they  complained  of  their  fare. 

"Deary  me!  I  guess  I  could  keep  to  work,"  sighed 
a  voice  from  the  rocking-chair,  "  if  I  carried  two  fans 
along,  the  way  they  do." 

By  five  o'clock  the  air  darkened  suddenly,  and  every- 
thing hushed  but  the  crickets.  Their  "  rascally  voices  " 
cut  through  the  silence  like  knives.  Then  a  great 
wind-storm  rose  as  from  the  earth,  swept  the  streets, 
and  snatched  up  the  dust  from  the  roadways,  to  lay  it 
down  as  suddenly  in  the  tidy  front  rooms  and  halls  that 
stood  open  to  breathe.  Green  maple-leaves  torn  from 
the  trees  flew  across  our  spare  room,  and  flattened  them- 
selves on  the  opposite  wall.  The  curtains  strained  and 
flapped  from  their  moorings,  and  caught  wildly  at  un- 
protected mantel  ornaments,  dashing  them  madly  into 
space,  with  streams  of  water  and  trails  of  goldenrod 
following.  The  carpet  rose  in  long  waves,  and  tugged 
at  its  fastenings  like  a  ship's  canvas.  The  house  rocked 
and  shuddered,  and  the  chimney  dropped  two  bricks  on 
the  roof  to  hurry  us  as  we  flew  up  stairs  and  down, 
shutting  windows,  latching  doors,  and  picking  up 
pieces.  "We  saw  Cap'n  Saul  reach  out  a  long  arm  for 
a  banging  shutter ;  there  was  a  clatter  of  glass  at  the 
parsonage.  "  Betty  ain't  spry  enough  for  a  time  like 
this,"  gasped  Mother  Hopton  from  the  garret  stairs. 
Betty  was  the  old  woman  who  lived  all  alone  in  the 
deserted  parsonage. 


HILLTOP'S  DESOLATION  81 

"  Don't  it  seem  like  the  end  o'  the  world  !  There  — 
I  heard  it  thunder !  Now,  I  do  wish  'Lias  would  come 
home.  —  Why,  here  he  is  this  blessed  minute  !  You 
hadn't  ought  to  run,  pa.  My !  how  tired  and  hot  you 
be  !  Drop  right  down  on  to  the  lounge." 

"  Windows  all  seen  to,  mother  ?  " 

"  Yes,  to  be  sure." 

"  You  ain't  hasped  the  milkroom  door  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes ;  do  set  down  and  get  cool." 

"  Be'n  up  garret  ?  " 

"Why,  certain." 

"  You  ain't  be'n  down  cellar  ?  " 

'•  Dear,  dear,  yes,  pa.  Be'n  down  cellar,  and  hild  all 
the  barrels  down,"  she  added  with  a  sense  of  weakly 
humor. 

"  I  bet  a  cent  you  didn't  rec'lect  the  woodroom 
door.'' 

"  Well,  there  !  But  that  don't  matter.  I'll  go  now 
and  see  to  it,  if  only  you'll  drop  down  somewheres  and 
get  cool." 

"  No,  you  won't ;  I'll  go  myself.  If  you  want  busi- 
ness done,  send  a  man.  Like  as  not  somethin'  else'll 
be  at  loose  ends  ;  and  we're  in  for  a  ripper,  I  tell  you ! 
Heat  don't  pile  up  this  way  for  nothin',  now." 

The  storm  came  tramping  on  from  the  northwest, 
black  above  and  livid  below,  bowing  the  treetops  with 
shrill  whistle  and  deafening  roar.  The  rain  followed 
after,  hissing  as  it  laid  the  dust.  The  first  great  drops 


82  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

struck  like  bullets,  punching  holes  in  the  roadways. 
The  lightning  quivered  incessantly,  dancing  about  the 
woodland,  shining  between  the  trees,  flashing  across  the 
north,  lighting  up  the  black  world  that  helplessly 
waited  and  harked.  We  knew  that  half  Hilltop  had 
taken  refuge  in  the  midst  of  plump  feather  beds,  and 
that  the  other  half  sat  far  from  open  fireplaces  and 
doors  with  its  feet  on  the  rungs  of  chairs,  preternat- 
urally  silent,  with  an  awed  hush  like  that  of  nature 
before  the  storm  burst. 

"There  goes  that  old  fool  of  a  brindle  straight  for 
the  big  ellurn,  and  the  whole  kit  and  boodle  a-fol- 
lerin' !  "  cried  the  'Squire,  as  he  shaded  his  eyes  at  the 
western  kitchen  window.  "  And  lightnin'  always  goes 
for  the  likeliest  critturs.  Hand  me  down  that  rubber 
coat,  mother." 

"  You  ain't  a-going  to  tempt  Providence  !  "  cried  the 
wife  in  a  pitiful,  shrill  key. 

But  the  'Squire  had  no  time  for  a  reply.  The 
heavens  opened  in  one  superlative,  impossible  blaze, 
and  out  of  the  heart  of  the  blaze  came  a  sound  as  if  the 
rocks  rent  and  the  mountains  fell ;  as  if  the  foundations 
of  earth  had  given  way,  and  chaos  was  at  hand.  Each 
grasped  at  the  nearest  support,  blinded  by  blue  flames 
that  darted  everywhere  about  the  room,  like  bats  on  a 
night  when  moths  are  abroad. 

The  'Squire  was  the  first  to  speak.  He  stood  holding 
the  rubber  coat  at  arm's  length,  but  dropped  it  and 


HILLTOP'S   DESOLATION  83 

looked  foolish  as  his  wife  laid  hold  of  his  arm.  She 
had  clutched  the  teakettle  in  her  fright,  and  stood  hold- 
ing it  in  one  hand  while  the  lid  clattered. 

"  I  thought  you  two  was  struck,"  she  said,  laughing 
nervously.  "  You  sort  of  settled  right  down  on  to  the 
floor." 

"I  thought  'twas  me,"  said  the  'Squire,  "and  I  ain't 
quite  sure  yet.  But  Lordy  !  what's  afire  ?  Run  all  of 
you  —  somewheres  —  anywheres  !  Save  something  if 
you  can,  but  run  for  your  lives  !  " 

He  caught  at  a  pile  of  milk-pans  ready  for  the  even- 
ing's milking,  and  started  for  the  spare  room. 

"It's  only  the  church,"  we  gasped,  as  we  reached  the 
windows  first  and  flung  open  the  blinds. 

"  Only  the  church ! "  cried  the  'Squire,  in  a  passion  of 
grief.  "  Do  you  begin  to  know  what  that  meetin'-house 
cost?  Confound  it!  Why  Ava'n't  it  the  Tiscopal  ? 
There  goes  Cap'n  Saul  with  a  couple  o'  buckets.  Wife, 
get  the  milk-pails." 

A  dozen  men  ran  to  the  pump.  Where  they  came 
from  we  could  not  tell.  They  were  just  there,  as  if 
the  cloud  had  dropped  them  too.  A  line  was  formed, 
and  pails  were  passed  from  hand  to  hand,  but  veiy  little 
water  reached  the  fire.  The  rain  stopped,  inconsider- 
ately, as  suddenly  as  it  had  begun.  Flames  shot  out  at 
the  windows  of  the  prim  old  meeting-house  and  licked 
the  clapboards  dry,  creeping  and  darting  toward  the 
steeple.  Cap'n  Saul  capered  heavily  here  and  there, 


84  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

directing,  shouting,  falling  over  himself,  and  lending  a 
hand  everywhere  ;  even  venturing  to  beat  in  vain  at 
the  doors  with  an  axe.  We  saw  him  driven  back  again 
and  again.  But  it  was  of  no  use.  The  heat  grew  in- 
tolerable ;  and  the  men  stopped  work,  and  stood  like 
sentinels  to  guard  the  houses  around.  Women  with 
brooms  swept  burning  cinders  from  doorsteps  and 
fences,  and  put  out  small  blazes  that  threatened  to 
kindle  the  little  settlement.  The  'Squire  hurried  home 
to  say  that  we  must  look  out  for  ourselves  when  the 
bell  fell.  Then  he  mounted  the  stairs  to  guard  the 
roof.  The  clouds  were  passing  towards  the  south,  but 
a  ragged  fringe  lingered  to  trickle  a  few  ineffectual 
drops  on  the  doomed  meeting-house.  Uncle  Arad 
limped  across  the  green  to  our  door,  staffing  along 
with  an  umbrella,  his  straw  hat  set  askew,  and  his  long 
thin  locks  dripping  on  his  coat-collar,  while  Aunt 
Tishy,  with  a  woollen  shawl  over  her  head,  sat  down 
on  the  door-sill,  a  personified  grief  ! 

"  It's  a  judgment,"  she  sobbed  hoarsely  — ik  a  judg- 
ment and  a  solemn  warning." 

But  what  was  in  her  mind,  or  on  it,  we  could  not 
guess 

Everybody  waited  —  waited  as  one  gathers  up  the 
faculties  into  one  knot  when  the  fuse  of  a  cannon 
cracker  is  lighted,  or  a  man's  finger  is  on  the  trigger  of 
a  gun.  But  the  flames  crawled  on,  and  shot  up  to  the 
steeple  and  played  around  the  bell  that  hung  in  loneli- 


HILLTOP'S  DESOLATION  85 

ness  on  high,  till  only  the  skeleton  of  the  old  church 
stood  with  vain  bravery  defying  a  paltry  enemy. 

The  timbers  were  hewn  in  the  old  days  of  honest 
work,  and  stood  by  each  other.  But  the  moment  came 
when  the  bell  must  go,  and  women  held  their  ears 
and  pinched  their  eyelids  close,  and  felt  their  hearts 
stand  still  with  a  deadly  spasm  of  pain.  The  steeple 
rocked  and  the  bell  tolled  one;  then  down  it  came 
with  a  dull  crash,  and  buried  itself  half  in  the  earth. 
Showers  of  sparks  and  cinders  flew  to  the  height  of  the 
steeple  —  a  grand  pyrotechnic  display  for  disengaged 
eyes.  The  danger  was  past ;  church  and  steeple,  bell 
and  trumpeting  angel,  all  "  in  one  red  ruin  blent." 
Cap'n  Saul  volunteered  to  keep  watch  all  night,  so  we 
kneAv  that  Hilltop  was  safe.  He  said  over  and  again 
that  he  was  just  as  wide  awake  as  a  blackfish,  and 
might  as  good  's  put  it  to  account.  He  could  turn  in 
for  an  hour  or  two  by  sun-up,  when  everybody  would 
be  a-stirring.  A  dozen  or  more  drenched  and  muddy 
men  and  women  filled  the  'Squire's  clean  kitchen,  drink- 
ing cider  and  staying  themselves  generously  from  a 
milk-pan  full  of  ginger  cookies  set  out  on  the  two- 
leaved  table,  together  with  great  slices  of  sage  cheese 
and  wedges  of  apple-pie. 

The  kettle,  restored  to  its  place  again,  steamed  cheer- 
fully ;  cups  and  spoons  jingled,  and  the  odor  of  coffee 
filled  the  room.  But  no  amount  of  good  cheer  could 
stay  Hilltop's  dreary  mourning  for  its  old  meeting- 
house. 


86 


A   UlLLTOP    SUMMER 


"  What  shall  we  do  ?  "  groaned  Aunt  Tishy,  "  hymn- 
books  all  gone  —  nothing  left  but  a  heap  of  ashes,  and 
Sunday  coming." 

"  Do  !  "  exclaimed  Uncle  Arad,  with  the  force  of  a 
sudden  inspiration  that  lifted  him  from  the  'Squire's 
elbow-chair  and  set  him  on  his  feet,  "Clean  up  the 
old  'Piscopal !  Guess  the  Lord  won't  care,  sence  we 
can't  help  ourselves." 

"  How  can  we  sing  the  Lord's  songs  in  a  strange 
land?"  piped  the  elder  deacon,  as  he  helped  himself  to 
a  second  glass  of  cider. 

'  Pity  if  some  of  us  can't  remember  the  old  hymn- 
tunes,"  said  Mrs.  Minerva  Pease  ener- 
getically. "  The  very  babes  and  suck- 
lin's  know  '  Old  Hundred  '  and  '  Chiny ; ' 
and  betwixt  us  all  we  can  make  shift  to 
keep  up  the  singin'  end,  if  the  parson '11 
do  the  rest.  There's  a  sight  of  work  to 
be  done  there,  though.  S'pose 
we  women  folks  all  get  together 
here  to-morrow  morning 
with  our  brooms.  'Squire 
Hopton'll  let  us  have 
pails,  I  know.  And  the 
men,  they'll  just  have  to 
turn  in  and  help  move 
things." 


A   NEW  FRIEND  87 


VIII 
A    NEW   FRIEND 

OUR  acquaintance  with  Miss  Brumley,  which  began 
at  the  church  porch,  developed  fast  in  the  few  weeks 
that  remained.  We  were  welcomed  so  heartily  when 
an  errand  took  us  one  morning  to  her  door  —  a  prac- 
tical errand  in  the  form  of  a  delicacy  from  our  host- 
ess to  the  invalid  —  that  we  went  again  and  again  with 
increasing  zest,  as  the  days  began  to  economize  on  the 
evening  end.  It  was  of  necessity  a  one-sided  affair ;  for 
Miss  Brumley,  with  the  sole  care  of  an  exacting  invalid, 
had  scant  time  for  anything  outside  her  own  home. 

One  sunny  morning  we  started  with  our  hostess,  who 
had  important  business  at  Harris,  which  lay  in  the  di- 
rection of  our  favorite  walk.  The  day  before  'Squire 
Hopton  had  promised  to  have  an  order  filled  for  Miss 
Brumley  at  "  Cap'n  Saul's  " — an  order  that  had  waited 
long,  and  increased  day  by  day  until  somebody  hap- 
pened by. 

Country  supplies,  when  one  lives  at  a  distance  from 
their  source,  do  not  come  in  like  the  tides.  Their  sea- 
sons of  ebb  and  flow  might  well  be  represented  in  alge- 
braic formula  by  x.  Two  factors  in  the  present  problem 


88  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

were  a  stray  cow  and  her  owner.  The  'Squire,  after  a 
luckless  chase  in  the  heat  of  a  September  afternoon, 
glowing  and  full  of  wrath,  came  suddenly  upon  Miss 
Brumley,  who  opened  a  hospitable  gate  and  invited  him 
to  come  in  with  her  to  the  cool  porch,  and  refresh  him- 
self with  raspberry  shrub.  As  the  story  of  his  griev- 
ance grew  to  Homeric  proportions,  his  anger  cooled, 
and  his  heart,  expanding  abnormally  with  the  continued 
refreshment  and  sympathy,  prompted  him  to  offer  any 
assistance  in  his  power  to  the  lone  women,  who  kept 
neither  errand-boy  nor  horse,  and  so  were  liable  to  the 
Biblical  embarrassment  of  empty  cruse  and  barrel. 

Immediately  upon  the  'Squire's  return  we  had  the  joy 
of  taking  the  order  to  the  store,  and  seeing  the  leisurely 
weighings  and  measurings  develop  from  shapeless  masses 
into  square-ended  parcels,  tied  with  criss-crossings  and 
bow-knots  of  brownish  twine,  which  snapped  off  sharply 
against  the  captain's  hard  little  finger.  More  than  once 
it  had  seemed  to  us  that  the  scales  were  not  reliable ; 
the  weight-end  going  up  too  far  every  time.  When  it 
came  to  the  precious  quarter  of  Old  Hyson  tea,  we 
remonstrated. 

"  But,  Captain  Lamb,  you  made  a  mistake.  It  was 
only  a  quarter  of  a  pound." 

"  Why,  bless  my  eyes,  if  my  hand  didn't  slip  !  I'll 
be  car'ful  next  time." 

Surely  the  recording  angel  looked  the  other  way.  and 
presently  turned  back  a  leaf  or  two  to  rub  out  any 


A   NEW  FRIEND  89 

dark  marks  that  may  have  accrued  in  his  youth  against 
the  captain's  name. 

Mrs.  Hopton  sat  between  us  on  the  broad  seat  of  the 
buggy  as  we  set  out  early  the  next  morning  in  the 
direction  of  Harris,  and  piloted  old  Zach  skilfully 
down  Meetin'-us  Hill,  past  the 
ruins  of  the  lamented  sacred 
building,  which  were  matter 
for  shying  to  the  orthodox 
beast.  But  our  hostess  held 
a  firm  rein  in  each  hand 
well  up  under  her  chin, 
and  addressed  soothing 
remarks  to  Zach,  who 
listened  with  one  ear  as 
made  long  diagonals  down  the 
hill,  marking  his  initial  with 
the  wheels  all  along  the  damp 
roadway.  The  brook  at  the 
foot  of  the  hill  was  at  its  lowest,  so 
we  boldly  plunged  in  with  much  rock- 
ing over  stones,  to  give  the  beast  a 
drink,  and  as  boldly  strained  and  struggled  up  the  steep 
bank  on  the  other  side.  This  was  also  an  economic 
measure,  we  learned,  as  the  off-wheel  tire  rattled  be- 
cause it  was  too  dry,  and  a  good  soaking  in  the  brook 
would  stop  its  creak. 

At  this  point  our  ways  diverged,  as  the  road  to  Har- 


90 


A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 


ris  wound  up  the  hill ;  so,  taking  an  armful  of  parcels, 
we  descended  from  the  buggy,  and  walked  along  the 
brookside  in  the  midst  of  an  apology  for  a  country  thor- 
oughfare. Grass  grew  between  the  ruts,  and  golden- 
rod  with  pale  asters 
blossomed  there.  On 
either  side  the  untrim- 
med  bushes  made  a 
thick  hedge  which  the  spiders 
laid  claim  to,  spreading  their 
glistening  webs  with  the  sat- 
isfaction of  geometrical  pro- 
fessors ;  looping  them  from  high 
slender  twigs,  and  fearlessly 
swinging  like  mad  acrobats,  till 
their  gauzy  cable  caught  and 
gave  them  a  tight-rope  for  other 
pranks.  Even  now,  with  midsummer  in 
the  air,  sumacs  and  swamp  maples  and 
blackberry  leaves  had  put  on  gaudiest 
colors,  defying  the  fate  that  already  had 
them  in  its  grasp. 

Everything  was  dewy,  sweet,  and  still. 
Presently  a  cricket  chirped  and  then  another ; 
and  in  the  distance  a  meadow-lark,  like  a  rejected 
lover,  sang  indefinitely,  "You  are  so-o"  — 

The  cottage  we  sought  stood  a  little  back  from  the 
highway,    three-quarters    hidden    by   lilacs    and    rose- 


A   NEW  FRIEND 


91 


bushes,  and  a  huge  trumpet  creeper  in  full  scarlet 
flower.  There  was  a  tangle  of  honeysuckle  at  its  roots, 
unearthly  sweet  with  late,  pale  blossoms  that  the  bees 
were  at.  A  wide  porch,  over-generous  for  the  country, 
held  a  wicker  chair  and  round  table. 

As  the  gate  creaked,  Miss  Brumley,  in  a  pink  ging- 
ham gown  and   long  white  apron,  came   to  the  open 
door.      It  was  jelly-day,  and  the  odors  of  a  whole  sum- 
mer followed  her  out  into 
the  cooler  air.    Our  brief 
country    experience    had 
taught    us    the    primary 
lesson   that    company   is 
not    needed    at    crises,    and 
we    hastened    to    withdraw, 
after  giving  our  parcels  into 
the  young  girl's  hands.    But 
she  urged  us  so  genuinely  to 
stay,  that   we  lingered,  and 
at  last  consented,  as  we  knew 

we  should  if  we  could  be  of  service.  Certainly,  she 
assured  us,  we  could  make  ourselves  very  useful.  The 
sound  of  our  voices  011  the .  cool  porch  would  make  her 
forget  the  heat  of  the  kitchen,  and  in  ten  minutes  we 
could  help  fill  the  glasses. 

Here  was  another  kind  of  woman  from  the  one  we 
had  dreamed  of  finding  —  a  woman  with  the  manners 
of  a  princess  ;  a  woman,  moreover,  whose  delicate  hands 


92  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

looked  as  if  they  had  never  done  anything  less  graceful 
than  lute-work  in  king's  palaces. 

The  long  morning  was  holiday  time.  Glasses  with  a 
silver  spoon  to  carry  off  the  heat  were  filled,  cooled, 
and  labelled.  The  invalid  in  the  bedroom  close  by  was 
curious  to  know  what  all  the  talking  was  about.  "  You 
can't  work  and  talk  too,"  she  said  severely.  "Come 
right  here,  Grace,  and  tell  me  who's  out  there."  The  in- 
terruptions were  many  and  annoying ;  but  our  new  friend 
accepted  them,  as  we  found  afterwards  she  accepted 
everything  that  came  to  her,  with  a  sunny,  elastic  spirit 
and  never-failing  kindliness. 

That  day  was  but  the  beginning  of  rare  days  to  lay 
up  in  memory.  Sometimes  we  sat  on  the  porch-steps 
and  looked  over  portfolios  of  sketches.  This  was  the 
winter  work  after  berries  and  fruits  were  gathered, 
canned,  and  jellied,  and  made  into  fragrant  jams  and 
marmalades.  Sometimes  we  posed  for  our  friend  when 
the  artist-cook  became  the  artist-designer ;  playing  a 
warming-pan  for  mandolin  in  an  Eastern  balcony  scene, 
or  balancing  kitchen  crocks  on  our  heads  as  Greek 
maidens  with  amphorae.  The  stern  old  woman  in  her 
elbow  chair  looked  upon  it  as  a  degenerate  sort  of  play 
in  a  working  world,  where  jelly-making  brought  sure  re- 
sults. She,  too,  often  posed,  though  unconsciously,  as 
Roman  matron  or  Puritan  grandam,  her  resolute  features 
softened  by  cap  and  kerchief  that  owed  their  daintiness 
to  another  touch  than  hers.  We,  with  young  enthusi- 


A   NEW  FRIEND.  93 

asm,  hailed  the  artist  so  newly  discovered,  and  brought 
to  her  all  our  books  that  furnished  promising  material 
for  illustration.  Already  we  saw  "  G.  B."  writ  large 
across  the  glowing  future. 

Everything  about  the  old  house  was  dainty  with 
artistic  instinct,  from  the  white  curtain  behind  the 
kitchen  spoons  and  skimmers,  to  the  scoured  floor  and 
white  tables.  We  must  have  looked  interrogatory  ;  for 
Miss  Brumley  replied  to  our  thoughts,  "  I  don't  do 
everything.  A  real  old-school  gentlewoman  comes  in 
every  week  and  refines  things.  Haven't  you  heard  of 
Aunt  Mercy  ?  No  ?  Why,  you've  missed  the  best  of 
Hilltop.  Don't  think  of  going  away  till  you  have  seen 
her.  Spring  cleanings  wait  for  her,  and  weddings  and 
funerals  would  be  simply  out  of  the  question  without 
her.  She  is  as  angelic  in  a  sick-room  as  my  dear  grand- 
mother, who  was  never  happy  unless  she  could  comfort 
somebody.  I  often  wonder  what  she  has  been  doing  in 
heaven  all  summer. 

"  But  about  my  house  ;  yes,  there  is  a  great  deal  to 
be  done,  but  I  am  up  before  the  sun,  and  could  do  it  all 
if  my  hands  were  not  more  useful  in  other  ways.  It 
marks  me  as  over  proud,  I  know."  She  smiled  con- 
tentedly, and  we  knew  then  that  all  Hilltop's  comment 
and  censure  could  not  chill  nor  hinder  the  even  flow  in 
her  veins  nor  add  one  drop  of  bitterness  to  her  cup  of 
life. 

Her  own  room  we  longed  to  carry  off  in  our  kodak, 


94 


A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 


that  already  held  a  dozen  interiors,  and  was  a  constant 
surprise  to  our  good  neighbors.  We  thought  of  our 
own  room  at  the  'Squire's,  with  its  green-paper  curtains 
uneasily  rolled  up  and  disagreeable  to  touch ;  our  two 
clean  rag  mats  with  vivid  colors ;  our  painted  chairs 
that  came  off  on  the  backs  of  our  gowns,  and  held 
us  when  we  wished  to  go ;  our  high  bedstead  with 
pink  calico  valance,  and  orange-and-blue  quilt  above  a 
mighty  feather  bed  ;  our  tiny  pillows  edged  with  home- 
knit  lace  ;  our  narrow  looking-glass 
that  made  us  wonder  what  our  friends 
could  see  in  us  to  tolerate;  and  our 
wall-paper  that  we  never  mentioned. 

Here  was  a  little,  crooked  room, 
where  the  ceiling  stooped  down  to  a 
four-foot  height  on  one  side,  and 
thrust  out  a  dormer  window  with 
thin  muslin  curtains  full  ruffled,  and 
held  back  by  old-fashioned  brass  lily  knobs  and  knots 
of  pale  pink  ribbon.  The  oval  mirror  above  a  bow 
legged  low-boy  that  did  duty  as  toilet-table  and  chiffo- 
nier, was  also  draped  daintily,  and  gave  back  one's 
casual  expression  with  the  precision  of  a  snap  shot. 
There  was  a  low  couch  with  wide  pillows,  a  white 
rug,  a  round  stand  with  crooked  legs,  a  narrow  man- 
tel over  a  tiny  corner  fireplace,  holding  two  tall 
silver  candlesticks  with  snuffers  and  tray.  Knobbed 
brass  andirons  held  birch  sticks  laid  for  a  fire  ;  books 


A   HEW  FRIEND  95 

everywhere,  and  a  pink-lined  work-basket  added  the 
last  touch  of  hominess.  A  frieze  of  sketches  in  water- 
color  ran  around  the  room  like  a  precession  of  the  equi- 
noxes. Above  the  fireplace  a  snowed-in  hamlet  with  a 
rosy  glow  from  the  setting  sun,  a  cold  thread  of  moon 
above  the  church  spire.  Over  the  east  window  a  mist 
of  trees,  just  touched  by  spring,  with  a  wandering  line 
of  brook  among  their  roots,  and  a  robin  with  two  straws 
in  his  bill  planning  a  nest.  Beyond,  a  garden  of  scarlet 
poppies  and  a  flight  of  birds ;  and  touching  the  winter 
scene,  a  glory  of  goldenrod  and  cardinal  flower  with  its 
feet  in  a  stony  brook. 

It  was  all  like  the  magic  of  a  dream,  and  we  dreaded 
to  see  it  fade  away  before  our  eyes. 

One  evening  we  came  just  after  tea,  and  stayed  to  be 
called  for  by  our  host  on  his  way  home  from  church 
committee-meeting  at  the  elder  deacon's.  The  grand- 
mother was  asleep  after  a  weary  day,  and  peace  had 
descended  upon  the  lonely  little  house.  The  night  was 
cool,  with  a  foretaste  of  the  coming  winter.  We  were 
asked  directly  up  to  the  little  crooked  room  where  the 
birch  fire  was  burning  softly,  with  a  low  moon  looking 
in  at  the  west  window.  Miss  Brumley  sat  on  the  rug 
full  in  the  firelight,  and  we  all  watched  the  creeping 
flames  like  devout  Parsees.  We  were  thinking  of  the 
summer  already  closed,  and  our  lost  opportunities  ;  and 
one  said,  "  To  think,  we  did  not  know  you  all  these 
months !  " 


96  A   HILLTOP    SUMMER 

Miss  Brumley  mused  a  moment. 

"  To  think  you  do  not  know  Abner  Geddie  !  That 
is  what  I  have  to  regret  for  you.  You  have  lost  a  great 
deal  out  of  your  lives  —  and  don't  know  it.  I  can  talk 
to  both  of  you  about  him,  because  you  have  sense,  and 
don't  look  on  all  men  as  possible  lovers.  Of  course 
you  know  Hilltop  gossip.  So  do  I.  It's  untrue,  like 
most  gossip,  and  doesn't  reach  me.  I  mean,  the  real 
me.  Of  course  it  would  be  annoying  if  it  were  worth 
while  ;  if  there  weren't  better  things  to  think  about. 
After  these  weeks  with  you  that  have  put  something 
new  into  my  life,  I  couldn't  in  justice  let  you  go  away 
without  knowing  the  one  real  man  in  Hilltop.  Only 
I'm  afraid  I  shall  fail  to  make  a  picture  for  you.  He  is 
working  too  hard.  I  asked  the  young  minister  about 
him  last  Sunday.  He  always  has  worked  too  hard. 
He  always  will  work  too  hard.  It's  in  him.  You 
don't  mind  my  telling  this  to  you?  Thank  you.  I 
wanted  you  to  know  that  he  is  a  real  man ;  not  just 
stuffed  clothes.  And  he  never  has  to  entertain  you 
with  his  pedigree  ;  just  a  son  of  Adam,  which  was  a  son 
of  God.  Besides,  it  shows  in  his  eyes.  Nothing  un- 
dignifies  him.  He  can  teach  district  school  with  its 
babble  of  noisy  young  ones,  or  hoe  corn,  or  hold  the 
plough,  feed  pigs,  or  read  Plato.  Big  and  little  are  all 
one  to  him.  His  body  does  its  work  well,  and  so  does 
his  mind.  They  work  together  like  man  and  angel. 
A  strong  team,  isn't  it?  If  you  meet  him  in  the 


A  NEW  FRIEND  97 

potato-patch,  he  takes  off  whatever  he  calls  a  hat  with 
as  much  grace  as  if  it  were  his  Sunday's  best ;  and  is 
no  more  affected  by  his  clothes  than  a  scarecrow. 

u  Aunt  Tishy  thinks  I  shall  marry  him,"  Miss  Brum- 
ley  laughed  softly.  "  He  still  has  the  spirit  of  a  man," 
she  added.  "  When  we  came  here  I  was  a  child  ten 
years  old.  He  was  my  one  real  friend  in  school.  They 
said  I  was  proud.  Very  likely.  I  suppose  I  did  keep 
apart  from  what  I  didn't  like.  I  must  have  been  a 
dreadful  little  prig.  Love  of  humanity  developed 
slowly  in  me,  and  not  very  far.  Abner  looked  out  for 
everything  that  was  stepped  on,  from  a  hopper  toad  to 
a  dirty  youngster  with  a  stubbed  toe.  I'm  afraid  I 
looked  the  other  way.  I  was  different,  they  said.  But 
they  were  different  too.  Abner  was  the  only  one  of 
them  all  that  liked  me  and  took  my  part.  I  was  dis- 
agreeable enough  to  need  it  all.  The  big  boys  made 
fun  of  him,  but  his  loyalty  was  the  enduring  kind.  I 
am  four  months  older  than  Abner.  Everybody  thought 
I  was  a  great  deal  older,  and  I  was  proud  of  it.  I  call 
myself  four  years  older  now  to  him  when  I  want  to  be 
motherly.  He  was  really  older  than  I,  with  a  deep  ex- 
perience of  trial  and  unsatisfied  ambition  that  made  him 
a  man  long  before  his  time.  I  look  back  on  those  days 
with  a  feeling  of  motherly  pity  for  the  plucky,  freckled 
little  Abner,  who  was  so  proud  when  I,  who  had  been 
the  taller,  had  to  look  up  to  him,  and  who  took  every- 
thing hard,  from  measles  to  affliction. 


98  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

"  He  was  one  of  Dr.  Holland's  new  Adams.  The 
force  and  genius  that  were  born  in  him  came  from  an- 
other generation,  and  he  made  the  most  of  them.  I 
often  wonder  what  he  would  have  been  with  a  father 
and  mother  until  now.  Hampered  and  limited,  I 
know  ;  never  let  to  do  as  he  chose,  any  more  than  his 
grandfather  was  before  him.  They  were  small  souls, 
that  would  have  fed  their  eaglet  on  chicken-meal. 
Now  he  has  his  liberty  in  a  way.  Liberty  is  good  for 
the  soul.  Otherwise  light  comes  to  it  through  cracks, 
and  stinted.  Bars  are  a  great  hindrance  and  make 
shadows." 

She  leaned  forward  to  put  another  stick  on  the  fire, 
which  flashed  suddenly  in  her  face  and  made  her 
beautiful. 

"  You  would  love  Abner  if  you  knew  him.  Not  as  I 
do,  for  I  know  him  as  nobody  else  can.  I  have  seen 
him  grow  from  the  ground.  Perhaps  you  think  there 
is  a  flavor  of  romance  here,  but  there  isn't.  If  Abner 
were  really  dying,  I  would  marry  him.  But  I  care  too 
much  for  his  future.  I  simply  stand  out  of  his  way  and 
keep  shadows  from  him,  my  own  as  well  as  the  others. 
He  will  understand  it  some  day  better  than  he  does 
now,  dear  boy. 

"Am  I  lonely  here?  Oh,  no.  When  my  candle  is 
snuffed  out  at  night  I  lean  across  my  window-sill  and 
hark  to  all  the  small  voices  in  the  night-world,  till  it 
seems  as  if  each  separate  little  praise  belonged  to  me. 


A   NEW  FRIEND  99 

In  the  city  it  is  different.  The  tiny,  clear  notes  are 
confused  in  the  great  money-making  roar,  and  the 
world  seems  to  hurry  away  from  the  stars.  Here  we 
are  always  sailing  towards  them.  When  we  do  make 
port,  I  wonder  if  earth  will  seem  as  near  as  they  do  now. 

"  My  own  thoughts  keep  me  busy  in  new  worlds,  till 
sleep  shuts  the  door  and  makes  universal  harmony.  I 
need  all  the  daytime  cares  and  perplexities  to  keep  me 
from  being  visionary.  Sleep-walking  in  the  sunshine 
is  against  the  law  of  our  own  life,  which  takes  care  of 
our  bones  gratuitously. 

"  You  wonder  if  I  am  ever  unhappy  ?  Who  can  be 
miserable  unless  they  choose  it,  with  books,  and  plenty 
of  work,  and  all  one's  faculties  in  good  order?  I  see 
more  than  I  can  think  about  every  hour;  and  in  some 
way  that  I  can  feel  but  not  explain,  everything  seems 
to  weave  itself  into  the  warp  of  my  life,  and  make 
patterns  that  are  pictures  to  me  always." 

"  I  s'pose,"  said  'Squire  Hopton,  as  tired  Zach  picked 
his  sleepy  way  up  the  hill  and  stumbled  at  pebbles, 
"  I  s'pose  you  got  all  talked  out  down  there  'twas  so 
late.  I  never  could  see  for  the  life  of  me  what  women 
folks  had  to  say  to  each  other.  They  don't  go  to  town 
meetin'  or  read  the  papers.  But  if  I'd  been  there  an' 
told  you  what  a  fight  we'd  had  over  the  little  parson, 
and  how  our  side  come  out  ahead,  you  wouldn't  have 
run  out  o'  talk  all  winter  long. 


100  A   HILLTOP   SUMMER 

"  The  brethren  voted  to  give  the  young  feller  a  clean 
four  hundred  dollars  in  cash,  and  the  rent  o'  the  parson- 
age, besides  a  donation  visit  in  the  fall  after  butcherin'. 
The  parsonage  is  worth  a  good  sixty  dollars  a  year. 
Then,  come  spring  and  fall,  our  women  folks  turns  out 
an'  helps  clean  house  and  set  things  to  rights,  and  give 
advice.  It  keeps  'em  chirk,  and  gives  'em  something 
to  talk  about  for  a  spell.  Ministers'  wives  —  well, 
they're  a  queer  lot,  take  'em  all  in  all.  They  don't 
take  nat' rally  to  the  washtub,  but  they  do  like  to  have 
a  finger  in  the  pie  when  it  comes  to  sermons.  Sorry 
that  there  ain't  a  wife  here,  but  then  he's  got  a  sister 
that's  a  widow  an'  no  children.  Mighty  good  chance 
for  her.  Ministers'  wives  ain't  gifted  in  the  kitchen- 
line,  far's  I  can  see ;  but  I  do'  know  but  what  their 
sisters  may  be,  'specially  if  they've  been  married  to 
smart  business  men  an'  got  started  straight. 

"  If  I  get  my  guess  though,  that  sister'll  have  to  step 
out  'fore  long,  and  let  somebody  else  step  in.  Under- 
stand? I  ain't  so  blind  but  what  I  can  see  through  a 
ladder  yet.  An'  she'll  do  better'n  most  of  'em  if  she  is 
different.  They  all  has  to  be  queer  some  way,  an'  if 
he  can  put  up  with  it  I  do'  know  as  we've  got  any  call 
to  make  remarks.  The  old  woman  won't  help  matters 
any,  but  that's  their  lookout." 


THE  LAST  OF  HILLTOP  101 


IX 

THE   LAST    OF    HILLTOP 

IT  was  the  evening  of  our  last  day  at  Hilltop,  and 
the  western  sky  was  still  glowing  when  we  went  to  bid 
Uncle  Arad  and  Aunt  Tishy  good-by.  They  sat  in 
silence  before  a  dying  fire,  with  Tildy  curled  up  on  the 
braided  rug  in  the  warmest  place. 

"  Ef  ever  I  was  glad  to  see  a  human  cretur,  it's  you 
two,"  said  Uncle  Arad,  reaching  out  a  shaky  hand, 
while  Aunt  Tishy  rose  to  set  chairs  for  us.  "  Now 
we've  got  somebody  to  talk  over  things  with  jest  as  we 
did  a  spell  ago,"  he  continued,  leaning  his  head  on  the 
staff  between  his  thin  knees.  "  Seems  as  ef  'twould  be 
a  comfort.  Did  y'ever  see  the  beat  o'  Abner's  up  an' 
dyin'  right  out  o'  hand  as  'twere  ?  "  He  winked  away 
a  teardrop  that  glistened  on  his  nose,  while  Aunt  Tishy 
picked  up  a  corner  of  her  apron. 

"  Why,  that  boy  jest  as  good  's  belonged  to  us.  All 
my  prop'ty  was  made  over  to  him.  Never  brought  my 
mind  to  bear  on  a  widder.  Widder  Geddie  !  Land! 
The  perplexin'ist  thing  't  ever  happened,  an'  the  sud- 
denist.  When  the  parson  said  he'd  took  typhoid, 
thinks  to  me,  the  boy's  be'n  a  studyin'  too  hard.  I'll 


102  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

go  over  an'  get  hold  011  him,  an'  fetch  'im  home  for  a 
spell.  Aunt  Tishy's  a  master  hand  at  boneset  tea. 
When  I  was  down  in  the  mouth  once,  'way  back  in  the 
sixties,  old  Dr.  Buell  says  he,  '  Mis'  Ridge,  you'd  ough' 
to  hev  a  degree  —  D.  B.,  says  he,  doctor  o'  boneset.' 
Well,  she  fetched  me  through  an'  saved  a  big  doctor's 
bill.  An'  I  reckoned  'twould  be  jest  so  with  Abner. 

"  So  I  hitched  up  an'  went  over  mountain  kind  o* 
easy,  watchin'  the  leetle  yaller  butterflies  tiddlin'  round, 

an'  the  thistle-seeds  a-floatin' 
so  shiny  an'  calm,  an'  every- 
thing lookin'  so    contented, 
an'  some  way  I  got  Abner's 
life    all    laid    out 
ahead     as      easy. 
^. .      Nothin'  to  hender 
his  bein'  a  preach- 
er ef  he  so  minded, 
-...--•*'""     ^ '  ^'  •'" 

when  he'd  got  his 

eddication  ;  or  a  lawyer — though  it  did  go  a  leetle 
ag'inst  the  grain;  or  a  reel  good  country  doctor, 
drivin'  round  in  his  own  shay,  ownin'  land  all  round 
his  place,  layin'  up  two  or  three  hundred  a  year  mebbe, 
when  we  was  dead  an'  gone.  I  got  to  sort  o'  wishin' 
we  could  hang  on  a  spell  longer  'n  we're  likely  to  ;  jest 
curi's  to  see  how  things  would  turn  out.  An'  when  I 
got  there  moggin'  along  —  'twas  late  in  the  forenoon 
—  he  was  jest  gone  !  Married  to  the  Bromley  girl,  and 


THE  LAST   OF  HILLTOP  103 

gone,  an'  no  help  for't.  Just  like  snuffin'  out  a  candle 
accidental.  Why,  'tain't  reasonable.  Here  I  be,  nigh 
on  to  ninety  year,  and  he  jest  in  the  dew  of  his  youth. 
We  was  gettin'  so  kind  o'  proud  an'  set  up  about  'im  — 
well,  the  Lord's  ways  ain't  our  ways." 

"Didn't  he  look  too  good  to  put  under  ground?" 
quavered  Aunt  Tishy.  "  So  like  the  other  Abner  !  It 
all  came  back  to  me,  that  he  was  the  boy  I  used  to  know 
so  long  ago.  It  didn't  seem  right  to  take  him  into  the 
church,  some  way.  If  he  could  only  have  been  laid  on 
our  own  communion-table  ;  but  there  —  it  was  real  good 
of  you  to  stay  with  Grandma  Brumley  and  let  Grace 
go  and  take  care  of  him.  They  say  she  just  held  on 
those  two  days  and  nights,  and  wouldn't  let  him  die. 
Seemed  as  if  she  lived  and  breathed  for  him.  Aunt 
Mercy  said  she  never  slept  a  wink.  And  when  the 
doctor  said  he  was  going,  our  minister  married  them 
jest  as  solemn  as  a  funeral.  They'd  sent  for  him,  to 
please  Abner ;  for  he  wouldn't  have  anybody  else,  he'd 
took  such  a  notion  to  him.  Nobody  but  the  doctor  and 
Aunt  Mercy  for  witnesses.  They  say  it  was  a  touching 
sight." 

"  The  old  woman  took  good  care,"  said  Uncle  Arad 
mournfully.  "  She  nussed  Abner's  mother  when  she 
was  a-dyin',  an'  the  boy  he  was  dretful  nigh  to  her.  I 
was  a-thinkin'  jest  before  you  come  in,  an'  a-sayin'  to 
Aunt  Tishy,  mebbe  we've  be'n  a  leetle  hard  on  Grace 
all  along,  not  thinkin'  she  set  so  much  store  by  Abner. 


104  A    HILLTOP    SUMMER 

We'd  got  a  notion  'twas  the  prop'ty,  mebbe,  along  o' 
Aimer's  smartness  an'  good  fain'ly  an'  all  that.  I  tell 
you,  human  natur's  queer  stuff  —  queer  stuff.  An'  I 
feel  a  sight  worse  to  think  she  won't  hev  his  money, 
than  I  did  when  I  s'posed  she  was  settin'  traps  for 
Abner.  Why,  his  last  words  to  the  parson  was  to  let 
us  know  how  he'd  allays  wanted  to  marry  her,  sence  he 
was  a  boy,  so  to  say,  an'  she  wouldn't.  Makes  me  feel 
powerful  mean,  some  way.  You  see,  she's  most  related 
to  us,  or  might  'a'  be'n.  Her  pa  was  Aunt  Rachel's 
youngest;  that  ar  Tom  Jess  took  on  his  knee  I  told 
y'  'bout  when  you  fust  come  here.  The  one  he  said  hed 
ough'  to  be'n  his'n.  Yes,  'twas  all  wrong,  Rachel's 
marryin'  the  way  she  did.  Well,  Tom  was  the  likeliest 
one  on  'em.  He  was  a  sight  like  her.  When  he  got 
his  freedom  suit,  he  took  into  his  head  to  go  over 
mountain  an'  find  somethin'  to  do.  Farmin'  allays  did 
stick  in  his  crop.  He  pottered  round  a  spell  tryin'  one 
thing  an'  t'other,  an'  doin'  odd  jobs,  till  jest  by  a  mer- 
ackle,  as  you  might  say,  he  got  clerk  in  a  book-store  an' 
married  the  old  man's  daughter.  He  settled  down  to 
bus'ness,  steady  like,  an'  bought  out  the  concern  when 
th'  old  folks  dropped  off.  He'd  be'n  mighty  glad  to 
take  Aunt  Rachel  an'  do  for  her,  but  Mis'  Brumley 
wouldn't  hear  to't  no  way.  She's  a  good  deal  sot  in 
her  mind  yet. 

"  Well,  Tom  was  car'f  ul  and  so  was  she  ;  an'  betwixt 
'em  they  laid  up  enough  to  get  on  comf'table  till  the 


THE  LAST  OF  HILLTOP  105 

year  o'  the  fever  that  carried  off  so  many.  Then  he 
died,  an'  they  brought  him  here  to  be  buried,  an'  after 
a  spell  his  widder  sold  out  an'  come  here  to  live  with 
the  little  un." 

"  That's  Grace,"  said  Aunt  Tishy. 

"  You  see,  her  folks  was  all  gone,  an'  she  hadn't  no 
call  to  go  back,"  continued  Uncle  Arad.  "  You  didn't 
know'  s  Grace  belonged  to  Aunt  Rachel?  I  wan'  to 
know !  " 

"  O  Abner,  Abner  !  "  cried  Aunt  Tishy  softly  in  the 
pause.  "  It  does  seem  as  if  I  couldn't  stand  it." 

"  Well,  we  ain't  got  to  long,"  said  Uncle  Arad,  with 
an  e}re  to  comfort.  "  One  day  with  the  Lord's  as  a 
thousan'  year." 

"  That's  just  the  way  it  seems  to  me,"  said  Aunt 
Tishy,  with  a  nervous  catch  in  her  breath  very  like  a 
laugh.  "  It  seems  a  thousand  years  now  since  he 
passed  away." 

There  was  a  long  silence  which  the  clock  improved 
with  cruel  strokes. 

"  A  thousan'  years  like  one  d&y: — a  thousan' years 
like  one  day  ;  "  mused  Uncle  Arad.  "  'Twas  techin'  to 
go  into  that  room  an'  see  him  a-layin'  there  so  still. 
His  hand  was  a  holdin'  on  to  Grace's,  an'  she  a-kneelin' 
there  by  the  bed.  I  couldn't  help  it  if  I'd  died  for't. 
I  bawled  like  a  baby.  So  I  hed  to  leave.  I  went  out 
into  the  little  hallway,  an'  felt  in  my  coat-tail  pockets 
an'  not  a  han'kercher  there." 


106  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

kt  Well !  "  said  Aunt  Tishy,  rousing  and  holding  on 
by  the  chair  arms,  "  you  had  two  clean  ones  folded  up 
in  your  breast  pocket.  I  put  'em  there  myself,  for  I 
thought  likely's  not  you'd  need  'em.  Didn't  you  get 
'round  to  'em  ?  " 

"  Well,  no,  to  tell  the  truth,"  said  Uncle  Arad 
meekly.  "  But  I  looked  into  my  hat  that  was  a-standin' 
on  a  chair,  for  the  red  bandanner,  an'  used  it  out  there. 
Didn't  seem  the  thing  in  a  house  o'  mournin'.  After 
a  spell  they  got  her  to  go  down-stairs  with  me,  and  we 
hed  a  talk  all  alone.  Or  I  guess  'twas  me.  She  was 
jest  like  a  stun.  But  that  sort's  got  feelin'.  I've  seen 
Aunt  Rachel  jes'  so.  Ef  you  hadn't  'a'  known  her, 
you'd  thought  she  didn't  care  a  cookie.  I  told  her 
we'd  reckoned  on  Abner's  doin'  well,  an'  set  forth  to 
'er  how  we'd  left  'im  the  heft  of  our  prop'ty,  'longside 
o'  what  Jess  give  us,  an'  now  'twould  go  to  her.  I 
thought  she'd  be  real  tickled,  an'  think  mebbe  'twas  jest 
as  she'd  calc'lated.  But  the  mazin'  thing  was  she  said 
up  an'  down  she  wouldn't  hev'  it.  Not  uppish  you 
know,  but  jest  sartin  in  her  own  mind.  'Twas  so  sudden 
I  kind  o'  ketched  my  breath.  She  said  't  all  she  wanted 
was  to  carry  his  name  long's  she  lived.  And  she'd 
got  it.  For  the  rest  part  she  could  make  her  own 
livin'.  That's  the  gist  of  her  remarks,  nigh's  I  recol- 
lect. 

"  Long  in  the  course  o'  the  day  our  parson  come  in 
ag'in,  an'  told  me  more  about  it.  He  said  how  Abner'd 


THE  LAST   OF  HILLTOP  107 

allays  felt  about  many  in'  her,  only  she  wouldn't. 
She  thought  he  was  bound  to  do  somethin'  gre't  in  the 
world,  an'  she  wouldn't  hender.  Then  he  jest  reached 
out  for  her  hand  —  feeble  —  an'  shet  his  eyes  like 
goin'  to  sleep  peaceful,  an'  sithed  once  —  only  once. 
An'  she  dropt  down  on  her  knees  the  way  she  does  in 
church,  holdin'  his  hand  all  the  time;  an'  says  she 
clear  an'  slow,  '  I  believe  in  God  the  Father  A'mighty, 
Maker  of  heaven  an'  earth.'  They  all  stood  around, 
the  parson  an'  the  doctor  an'  Aunt  Mercy,  an'  didn't 
know  what  on  earth  they  was  agoin'  to  do.  An'  then 
I  come  in. 

"  Nex'  day  forenoon  she  made  all  the  arrangements  for 
the  fun'ral  an'  everything,  out  of  her  own  head,  an' 
nobody  da-ret  say  ay,  yes,  or  no.  She  told  our  parson 
that  night  when  he  set  up  with  him,  that  all  along  she'd 
felt  'twa'n't  fair  an1  square  o'  the  Lord  to  make  that 
boy  hev  such  a  tough  time,  till  she  didn't  know  but 
what  she'd  get  to  be  a  unbeliever.  But  now  'twas  all 
right.  She  was  sartin  he'd  got  somethin'  ahead  of  him 
'twas  of  more  account  'n  anything  he  was  likely  to  do 
here.  Otherways  'twould  hev  been  a  sort  of  a  insult  to 
'im.  That's  the  way  it  looked  to  her,  y'see.  She  allays 
was  queer,  a  leetle  off  's  we  say,  but  mebbe  no  harm  in't. 
There  wa'n't  anv  intended.  That  I  will  say,  if  'twas 

*/  «/ 

my  last  words. 

"  An'  there  she  sot  in  church  that  day  —  the  Widder 
Geddie  —  think  on't!  Jes'  like  a  statoo,  in  her  black 


108  A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 

veil  an'  bunnit ;  the  men  a  sniffliii',  an'  the  women  folks 
all  a  cryin'  an'  takin'  on.  Thinks  to  me, '  O  Absalom, 
my  son  Absalom  ;  O  Absalom,  my  son,  my  son ! 
Would  God  I  had  died  for  thee,  O  Absalom,  my  son, 
my  son ! '  An'  when  they  come  to  lay  'im  'longside 
Aunt  Rachel,  seems  's  if  I'd  tumble  right  in  too,  an'  be 
done  with't.  Not  much  sense  in  my  cumberin'  of  the 
ground  an'  him  gone." 

"  Did  you  want  to  leave  me  all  breathing  alone  ?  " 
asked  Aunt  Tishy,  a  little  hurt. 

It  was  dark  when  we  came  away  and  crossed  the 
green,  shuddering  unconsciously  at  the  thought  of  what 
lay  before  us.  We  had  not  seen  our  friend  since  that 
memorable  day  in  church.  She  had  been  at  Abner's 
boarding-house  in  town,  setting  his  affairs  in  order. 

Of  that  last  interview  it  is  impossible  to  speak.  We 
came  out  into  the  calm  night  from  an  unknown  country 
remote  from  time  and  space.  She  whom  we  loved  had 
great  treasure  laid  up  in  heaven.  She  was  by  far  the 
richest  woman  we  had  ever  seen. 

As  we  turned  the  shadowy  corner  of  the  up-hill  road, 
where  only  the  stars  and  the  brook  seemed  alive,  a 
strange  figure  with  waving  arms  stood  directly  in  our 
way.  An  apparition  would  not  have  had  power  to 
startle  us  there ;  but  it  was  only  Eben  Smith,  with  a 
bag  of  sugar  cookies  and  a  big  bouquet  of  fennel. 

"  Mis'   Pease  thought   you'd  reckon   of   'em   on  the 


THE  LAST   OF  HILLTOP  109 

stage,"  he  said,  and  added,  "  I'm  real  pleased  to  come 
acrost  you  here.  Saves  me  all  this  tramp  up-hill  to  the 
'Square's." 

The  morning  was  still  and  dewy  when  the  stage 
rounded  up  to  the  post-office  with  a  warlike  toot  on  the 
horn  that  did  not  always  go  off  at  first.  Every  one  lis- 
tened, from  away  beyond  the  school-house  corner  and 
the  sawmill  bridge,  for  the  cheerful  sound  that  broke 
through  the  utter  silence,  like  a  weekly  trumpet  call  to 
something  grand  and  stirring. 

We  saw  Cap'n  Saul  bring  out  the  mail,  two  postal 
cards  and  a  letter  that  we  had  left  with  him  the  night 
before  for  company,  and  that  were  not  urgent.  Then 
he  went  back  for  his  coat  and  climbed  up  with  difficulty, 
sitting  bareheaded  beside  the  driver.  A  moment  later 
he  caught  his  foot  and  fell  over  the  wheel  at  our  gate, 
with  his  hands  full  of  cinnamon-stick  and  peppermint 
lozenges.  Mrs.  Hopton  hurried  out  behind  us  with  an 
apple-pie  carefully  tied  up  in  a  napkin,  which  we  could 
keep,  as  she  had  several  more  ;  and  the  'Squire,  not  to  be 
outdone,  offered  us  the  "  biggest  punkin  in  town." 

"  If  we'd  come  back  next  year,"  he  added,  "  we  should 
have  our  choice  of  a  likely  couple  of  lambs  or  the  slip- 
p'riest  little  white  pigs  you  ever  see." 

We  kissed  them  all  round  —  Mrs.  Hopton,  Aunt 
Tishy,  the  'Squire,  who  blushed  like  a  boy,  Uncle  Arad, 
and  Cap'n  Saul ;  while  the  driver  grinned  from  his  high 
seat,  and  made  a  doubtful  remark  about  feeling  or  not 
feeling  safe. 


110 


A    HILLTOP   SUMMER 


Aunt  Tishy  said  it  wasn't  likely  that  we  should  ever 
see  them  all  again  ;  but  Uncle  Arad  braced  against  the 
hitching-post,  and  waved  his  hat  round-  and  round  on 
the  staff  held  high  above  his  head  ;  a  hilarious  farewell 
that  was  comforting. 

As  we  dropped  below  the  hill,  and  lost  even  the  ridge 
of  the  world  with  its  shaggy  wind-bent  trees,  the  new 
life  in  waiting  rushed  in  to  fill  the  vacuum,  and  Hilltop 
lay  years  behind  us  in  the  past. 


